Un Moment Dans Le Temps
by Rainnboots
Summary: Scenes from the lives of our beloved White Collar characters. Pre-series to present. Chapter 13 updated on August 23rd - Please read the update note!
1. Un

**Author's Note: **Hey everyone! So this is my first _White Collar_ story. It's a little odd in the way it's written; each chapter is going to be a moment in time (hence the title "Un Moment Dans Le Temps [_A__ Moment In Time_].") in the lives of the characters, and it's going to show how all of the characters first met (at least, the way I'm writing them to have met) and just kinda progress through their relationships with each other throughout the years and how everyone ended up where they are now currently in the show. Yeah, I'm doing a bad job of explaining it; it'll make more sense once you read it, I promise. I'm not sure how many of the chapters there will be or how frequent the updates will be; I just write as these little scenes come to me. Oh, and I'm putting the ages up at the beginning of the chapters, just to give a rough time line on how things are happening. Thanks guys!

**To avoid confusion:** The "Peter" mentioned in this chapter is, in fact, Neal. "Peter" is just the name he goes by; I figured Neal, even as a teen, would go by an alias. He WILL reveal his real name to be Neal in later chapters before Peter Burke is introduced. Thanks again.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own White Collar or any of its characters; they all belong to their respective owners. I'm simply borrowing them for my own amusement.

**Warnings: **So far... Cursing and under-aged, self-prostitution (so underaged, "consensual" sex). These will be updated as need-be.

* * *

_Ages: __Neal: 15. Mozzie: 29._

"You done with your pie yet, sugar?"

Mozzie looked up from the paper he was reading, a large black woman standing next to his table.

"Oh, yes, thank you, Gloria." he pushed his plate towards her. "It was delicious; cooked to perfection, as always."

"Thank you, Miles." Gloria said, a gentle smile on her face as she grabbed the plate.

"Really, Gloria, I prefer to be called 'Mozzie'."

"I'll call you by the name your momma gave you," said Gloria. "More coffee?"

"Oh, yes please." said Mozzie.

"Be back in a minute," Gloria called over her shoulder.

Mozzie went back to his paper, straightening his glasses and snapping the pages straight. He flipped the pages, continuing to read for a moment, then a voice interrupted him.

"Here's your coffee,"

Mozzie looked up, the voice new and unfamiliar. The voice belong to the guy--the _boy_ at the edge of the table, balancing a bus tub full of plates in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. His wide, brilliantly blue eyes were lightly covered by a mess of dark hair that looked like they could use a good cut and wash. He was a hair or two taller than Mozzie and looked like he'd just hit the "lanky" stage of adolescence. His cream-colored shirt had grease and chocolate stains on it, and the green apron he wore hung loose and low over his jeans.

He was _handsome_.

Not that Mozzie was into guys, especially guys as young as this kid, but even the straightest of straight guys would have to admit... the kid was attractive.

Mozzie caught himself staring, focusing his eyes instead on the mug the kid placed on his table.

"Thank you," said Mozzie. The boy nodded, pivoting on the balls of his feet to walk away. Mozzie spoke up again.

"Wait," he called, the boy quickly turning, the plates rattling in their tub. The tub slipped for a moment, but the boy quickly adjusted his grip and caught it, laying it on the table. His eyebrows were raised expectantly at Mozzie, and for a moment, Mozzie forgot why he had called out the boy in the first place.

"Cream," said Mozzie. "I need some cream."

"Yes sir," the boy nodded.

"And send Gloria back over here," said Mozzie.

"Sure," he answered, picking up the heavy tub with both hands and walking for the kitchen.

Mozzie shook his head, grabbing three sugar packets and emptying them into the coffee, stirring it with his spoon. He adjusted himself in the vinyl booth, rubbing his forehead, the newspaper long forgotten.

"You called me?" said Gloria, setting a coffee cream holder in front of Mozzie.

"Yeah," said Mozzie. "Gloria, who's that kid?"

"Who, him?" said Gloria, looking over his shoulder as the boy reappeared from the kitchen, another bus tub in his hands, this one empty. Mozzie nodded.

"That's Peter," said Gloria. "Don't know much about him, but he came in one here day looking for a job and I couldn't turn him down. A real sweetheart, he is. A fine worker, too."

"How old is he?"

"He says he's seventeen," Gloria answered.

"You say that as if you don't believe him," Mozzie pointed out.

"I don't."

Moz snorted, taking another sip of coffee.

"Why you asking?" asked Gloria, leaning against the booth.

"Just curious," said Mozzie, watching as the boy, Peter, swerved through the tables to pick up empty plates.

* * *

Mozzie tapped his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel, a red light keeping his car idling at the corner. Now Mozzie isn't exactly a law-abiding citizen, and it was two A.M., and there wasn't another car in site, but he's got three unpaid parking tickets he's got to find money for, and they did a damn good job of hiding those traffic cameras.

"Jesus Christ, this is the longest red light I've ever seen!" Mozzie exclaimed, sighing frustratedly and rubbing his forehead. He took a drag out of the cigarette pinched between his fingers and finally, praise God, the light changed to green.

Mozzie shook his head, his '81 Toyota rolling down the street. Pulling up to another intersection, the light flickered red.

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Mozzie exclaimed, slamming on his breaks. He rolled down his car window, tapping the ashes off the end of his cigarette. He took a drag, exhaling the smoke through his nose. He rubbed his eyes, hearing a light crashing noise from outside the car. He turned his head and looked towards the alleyway beside him. Out stumbled a man, thirty, maybe fourty, clearly drunk.

"Here," he said, holding something out to no one. Then from the alley popped a shorter man, his head down. He took whatever it was from the drunk and tucked it into his pocket, wiping off his mouth. He shivered (_No wonder, the kid's got no jacket and it's fifty degrees out_, Mozzie thought to himself.), looking up and down the street quickly. The light from a street lamp caught his face and in surpise, Mozzie dropped his cigarette out the window. It was the boy from Gloria's diner, Peter. What the hell was a kid his age doing down a dark alley with a grown man? Mozzie made a face at the thought as Peter tucked his hand deep into his pockets and started down the street.

"Hey, kid," Mozzie called out, Peter pivoting on the balls of his feet like he had at the diner. "C'mere."

Peter walked up to the car, laying one arm over the other on the door and raising his eyebrows.

"What can I do you for, mister?" asked Peter, an innocent smile on his face.

"Why don't you tell me what a kid like you's doing out here screwing around in a back alley?" Mozzie asked. "That guy was twice your age."

"Hey, if you want a turn--"

"Good God," Mozzie cut him off. "How old are you?"

"Old enough." Peter shrugged.

"I saw you back at Gloria's, she said you were seventeen." said Moz.

"Who's Gloria?"

"Cut the crap," said Mozzie. "You brought me my coffee."

Peter was silent, standing up and tucking his hands back into his pockets.

"It's Peter, right?" said Mozzie.

"'S what I go by," Peter answered.

"You need a ride home?" asked Mozzie.

Peter acted as if he didn't hear the question, looking up the street.

"You _got_ a home?"

"Depends on your definition of 'home.'"

"A warm place to sleep."

Peter shrugged again, and Mozzie spied the goosebumps on his arms.

"Get in," said Mozzie, nodding towards the passenger seat.

"Buddy, we do this on my turf,"

"I don't want any of your 'service,'" said Mozzie. "You're gonna freeze your ass off out here, and I need the good karma points."

Peter was silent, studying Mozzie for a moment. He let out a puff of air, fog emerging from his mouth, and walked around the car. He slid in, buckling himself in silently. Mozzie pushed on the gas, crossing the steet light as the light changed from green to yellow. The rest of the drive was silent, as was the walk up the apartment.

"I'd recommend sleeping on the couch; the pull-out'll give you back cramps for days." said Mozzie, Peter walking past him into the aparment. "You're welcome to anything edible you can find in the fridge, but I think all I've got is some old sliced ham and a bottle of gin."

Peter took in his surroundings, making his way to the couch and sitting down.

"...Or you can sit," said Mozzie, tossing his jacket on a chair. "I'll get you a blanket."

Mozzie went to his room, working to untangle one of the blankets from the heap on his bed. After a moment, he yanked it out of the pile and wrapped it around his hand.

"You can use the shower, but the water takes a few minutes to heat up." said Mozzie, tossing the blanket onto the couch.

"Where is it?" Peter asked.

"End of the hall," Mozzie said, guestering towards the back of the apartment, beginning to walk towards his bedroom.

"Don't steal anything," Mozzie called, slamming the door behind him.

Peter showered quickly, grateful to get the street smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol out of his hair. He pulled his clothes back on quickly, quietly making his way out of the bathroom and taking a quick look around the apartment before taking to the couch and quickly falling asleep.

Mozzie stumbled out of bed, blindly making his way for the kitchen, gropping around the counters to try and find the coffee pots ON button before he remembered he was out of coffee, and the coffee pot broke two days ago. Mozzie groaned, rubbing his eyes as another thought hit him - Peter.

Mozzie turned around, blinking harshly to try and clear the sleep from his eyes, and walked towards the couch. The blanket was folded messily, drapped over the armrest, and an origami flower lay on the top. A quick "thank you" was scrawled on one of the flowers' petals in quick, messy handwriting.

Mozzie yawned, lowering himself into a chair and running a hand through his thinning hair. Looking at the flower again, he had the nagging feeling Peter was going to become a big part of his life.

* * *

Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? ...Bueller?


	2. Deux

**Author's Note: **Hello again! Thank you all so much for all the hits and review! I cannot being to express how happy I am to see so many "review alert" e-mails sitting on my inbox; they really inspire me to keep writing. So here's the second chapter, much shorter than the last, but it starts to reveal the more con-ish, underground-knowledge side of Neal, which will be expanded on very much in later chapters (duh). Enjoy! :)

**UPDATE: **This chapter was updated on Sunday, Feb. 7.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters your recognize, they all belong to the wonderful Jeff Eastin and USA Network, I'm simply borrowing for my own amusement.

**Warnings: **See first chapter.

* * *

_Ages: Neal, 15; Mozzie, 29._

Mozzie pushed opened the door to the record shop, the scent of incense and the sound of an old BOC album hitting him as he stepped through the threshold.

"Hey, how are ya?" greeted a young fellow from behind the counter, his earlobes stretched from ear gauges and a large, blue fish tattoo on his arm.

"Just fine, thanks." Mozzie nodded. "How about yourself?"

"Doin' great, thank you." the man replied. "Can I help you find anything today, sir?"

"Nope, just browsing." said Mozzie.

_Browsing for only the most valuble record this side of Manhattan._ Mozzie smiled to himself, causually flipping through the records on the racks. He moved around the store, finally making his way to the "P"s. He heard the bell on the door chime as it was pulled open, a blast of cool air flooding the small store.

"Pete! There you are!" said the man who had greeted Mozzie. "I was starting to get worried; you're never late. You know Klein would kill you if he were here; he nearly wrung my neck for hiring a sixteen year old."

"Yeah, I'm really sorry about that, Mark; had some stuff to take care of at home. You won't tell him, will you?"

"'Course not, you're way too much fun to work with."

Mozzie's fingers paused on a record, recognizing the voice. Who was it? Mozzie raised his eyes in the slighest as the person walked past him, his head covered by a grey hoodie. He kept searching through the racks, keeping his eye on the door in the back. After a few moments it opened, the man walking out; it was Peter, in the same jeans and sneakers he had worn at the diner, but with a t-shirt of a band so old and obscure Mozzie hadn't even heard of them. His hair was messy, as if he'd just rolled out bed. Peter's eyes flickered to Mozzie as he passed, flashing a friendly smile at him before walking up to the counter and striking up a conversation with Mark.

Mozzie turned his attention back to the CD, his eyes falling to the record his hand was resting on; the one he'd been searching for. He picked it up, Elvis staring up at him, and slid the record out of it's cover. There it was; the infamously mispelled "Frankfort Special" title Mozzie had been searching for for longer than he cared to remember. Sliding it back into the cover, Mozzie gave a silent whoop of joy and strode up the counter as Mark made his way to the back room.

"Find everything alright today?" Peter asked as Mozzie laid the record on the counter.

"Yes, quite alright," said Mozzie, smiling broadly. Peter took the record, an amused look on his face, and rung up the purchase.

"You know, you're the only person I know who can actually regress in age." Mozzie commented.

Peter furrowed his brow at Mozzie.

"Excuse me?" asked Peter, confused.

"The other day you were seventeen, today you're sixteen..." said Mozzie. "I never met someone who can do that before."

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Peter asked.

"You should; you crashed on my couch not too long ago." said Mozzie.

Peter was silent, fiddling with the cash register. "That'll be seventeen eighty-four."

"That was a nice flower you folded; looked intricate. How'd you learn to do that?" asked Mozzie, pulling a twenty out of his wallet.

Peter shrugged, hitting the cash register to open it and taking the bill from Mozzie. "Out of boredom."

"Pretty good," said Mozzie.

"Thanks." said Peter, sliding Mozzie his change over the counter, a hand-drawn bird tattoo on the back of Peter's left hand flashing Mozzie. "And I'm seveneteen. I have no idea where 'sixteen' came from."

"Really? I could've sworn I heard Mark over there say Klein would have your hide for coming in late, especially as a sixteen year old."

"Must've heard him wrong." Peter shrugged and pulled the record out of the case, looking it over.

"What kind of bird is that?" Mozzie asked, motioning to Peter's hand.

"Hmm? Oh, a sparrow."

"You draw that?"

"Yeah," said Peter. Mozzie raised his eyebrows in surprise; the bird was spot on. Peter turned the record over in his hands. "So you're pretty happy about this record, huh?"

"More than you know," said Mozzie.

"What's so special--" Peter paused, his eyebrows raising. "No. This can't be what I think it is? 'Frankfort' with a 'D'... this is Elvis' secret love song to his girlfriend?"

Mozzie smiled broadly again, looking rather proud of himself.

Peter leaned back on his stool. "I can't believe this."

"Believe it, kid," said Mozzie, taking the change off the counter and the record from Peter's hands. "How'd you know about this anyway? I'm pretty impressed someone your age would know about something as old as this," said Mozzie.

"Who doesn't? It's the most sought after record to date." said Peter. "And here it was, right under my nose."

"Gotta open your eyes, Pete," said Mozzie. "The best place to hide things is in plain sight."

Mozzie tucking the record under his arm. "Have a good one, Peter."

Peter scoffed. "Yeah, you too."

Smiling, Mozzie made his way out of the record store, a spring in his step.

* * *

Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? ...Bueller?


	3. Trois

**Author's Note: **Hello again, happy White Collar day! This chapter is longer than the last, and more of a light-hearted chapter. I personally love the beginning, but I find the end to be so-so. Make sure to leave a review at the end to let me know what you think, and any ideas you might have for future chapters! Thanks to all who have commented and Story Alert-ed and favorited this story; you guys are awesome. Keep it up!

**Dislcaimer:** I do not own any reciognized characters or places, they all belong to their respective owners.

**Warnings:** See first chapter.

* * *

It was a Sunday; church bells were ringing and old Mother Mary's were opening the doors of theirs missions to offer up eggs and toast to homeless. It was a cold day where even your heaviest jacket and a scalding hot cup of coffee just wouldn't cut it.

Mozzie pulled his jacket tighter around him, teeth chattering against each other as he made his way down the sidewalk and began to wonder if a morning trip to The Met was really worth it. As he reached the museum, he took the steps two at a time, hurrying through the doors to buy his ticket. Mozzie loosened his scarf as he browsed the museum, sighing in admiration at the careful detail in each piece.

"Beautiful," he breathed, look up at a statue. "Just beautiful."

Shaking his head, Mozzie moved towards the next room, rounding the corner to a room filled with paintings. Gazing closely at a painting, Mozzie heard the loud sound of many footsteps and a young, familiar voice. Turning his head towards one of the large entrance ways, Peter appeared, dressed in nice black slacks and a blue button up, his hair slicked back, a shiny black nametag hanging on a rope around his neck, and a small group of people following him.

"Oh, you can't be serious," Mozzie said to himself.

"...And that concludes our tour. Thank you so much for sticking around with me, ladies and gentlemen," said Peter. "I hope you all enjoyed yourself and learned something new!"

Mozzie turned his eyes back to the painting as the folks on the tour wandered off and woman came up to Peter, a nametag prominent on her chest as well. After chatting with him for a moment, she left, leaving Peter alone to admire a painting.

Mozzie strode up to Peter, taking a spot beside him. Peter looked up at him, pushing his hands into his pockets then looking back at the painting.

"I'm beginning to think you're stalking me," said Peter.

"I'm beginning to think you lie far too much for someone your age." said Mozzie.

"What gives you that impression?" asked Peter.

"How old does the broad think you are?" Mozzie asked, nodding his head in the direction the woman had left. Peter ignored the question, drifting towards another painting, Mozzie following him.

"So you're a busboy, a museum tour guide, work at a record shop, and your have your _evening job_," said Mozzie, mumbling the last two words. "Should I expect to see you popping up anywhere else?"

"Not unless you drive down to the bad part of the Bronx."

"All of Bronx is the bad part of the Bronx."

Peter laughed, covering his mouth to muffle the echoing sound.

"So how old are you today?" asked Mozzie, looking up at the painting.

"I thought we've already established my age," said Peter.

"Yes, but it keeps changing," said Mozzie. "How old do your colleagues think you are?"

"I _am_ seventeen."

"That's interesting, because I thought you had to be twenty-one to work here," said Mozzie.

"There's exceptions to every rule," said Peter. Mozzie took a long glance at Peter, seeing the look of complete ease on Peter's face, even in the lie. Mozzie raised his eyebrows in a slightly impressed way, an amused smile on his face; this kid could lie his way into the Oval Office if he tried.

"You're a rather excellent liar," Mozzie pointed out. "Suppose your a master sweet-talker, too?"

"How do you think I got this job?" Peter asked. Mozzie chuckled, crossing his arms.

"You could go far with skills like that," said Mozzie.

"In what field?"

Mozzie shrugged. "All of 'em."

Peter smiled, pushing his hair out of his face and smoothing out his tie.

"One article of truth, now," said Mozzie. "How old are you?"

Peter took in a breath, taking a casual glance around the room. "Sixteen today."

"Well happy birthday then," said Mozzie.

"Thanks," said Peter, than mumbled as an afterthought, "Only one of those I'll be getting today."

Mozzie took a sideways glance at Peter, an almost somber expression on the boy's face. "When do you get off work?"

"Five-thirty," Peter answered. "Why do you ask?"

"I'll take you out for a drink, celebrate this momentous day."

"I'm sixteen," Peter said pointedly.

Mozzie shrugged. "'M sure you got a fake I.D. somewhere."

Peter chuckled. "Thanks, but I'm not much of a beer guy."

"Who said anything about beer?" asked Mozzie.

"What'd you have in mind?"

"Be out on the front steps at five fourty-five to find out." said Mozzie, taking a step back before turning and walking away. Peter watching Mozzie over his shoulder, a curious smile on his face.

* * *

"See you later, Peter," the receptionist called to Peter as he slid on his jacket. "Have a good night."

"You too, bye Meredith," Peter waved, walking out the door and taking look around. Snow had fallen during his work hours and there was a light layer over the sidewalk and trees. He looked around for the familiar balding head and glasses, spotting them near the bottom of the steps. Carefully he made his way over, Mozzie turning as Peter approached. Mozzie checked his watch.

"Punctual," Mozzie commented.

"Where we going?" Peter asked, raising his shoulder to his ears and squinting his eyes as a sharp wind blew.

"You'll see," said Mozzie.

The walk was short but when down paths Peter had surprisingly never been down. They passed large extravagent houses and tall apartment buildings, and their destination was nestled on the corner inbetween an office building and a modeling agency.

"What is this place?" asked Peter as they stopped in front of the building.

"French Press, the best little café this side of Heaven," said Mozzie, holding the door open for Peter.

"Never heard of it," Peter commented. Taking in a deep breath and stepping out of the cold, Peter was met with the comforting scent of fresh brewed coffee and warm bread.

"Not many people have," said Mozzie, the wind catching the door and slamming it closed. "That's what makes it so great."

Mozzie led Peter to a small wooden table in the back, slipping off his coat as a waiter came up to the table.

"Hey guys, how are you tonight?" the waiter asked.

"Good," Mozzie and Peter replied.

"Can I get you guys started off with some drinks?"

"Coffee with cream," said Mozzie.

"Same here," said Peter.

"Two coffees coming up," said the waiter, walking towards the kitchen.

"You come here often?" Peter asked, looking at the menu.

"When I can."

"What's good?"

"I'm partial to the French toast,"

"Their waffles any good?" asked Peter, glancing up at Mozzie. Mozzie shrugged.

"They're okay." Mozzie answered, the waiter placing two mismatched coffee mugs on the table.

"You guys decided on anything or do you need a few more minutes?" the waiter asked, pen and pad in hand.

"I'll have the French toast," said Mozzie.

"And I'll have the waffles with a side of bacon, please," said Peter.

"Okay, I'll be back in a few," said the waiter, smiling at them.

Once their food came, their meal was shared in relative, comfortable silence, their conversations consisting of old books, music, and artists they admired.

"His early stuff was the best, though," said Mozzie. "Before Alexandria."

Peter shook his head in disagreement. "It's when he was_ with _Alexandria when his art was at its prime."

"What? After he met her all he painted was cutesy and lovey-dovey. Before he met her he painted everything; tragedy, landscapes, self-portraits. When Alexandria came in all he painted was her."

"Yes, but they all had _passion_," said Peter, finishing the last of his waffles. "Before her he just used greys and browns and tans; when he met Alexandria his paintings had reds and oranges and bright greens and yellows. He found life in Alexandria; he loved her."

Mozzie shrugged. "I still say his early works were the best, but to each his own."

"To each his own," said Peter, taking a drink of coffee. He looked around the café. "Excuse me for a moment."

Mozzie nodded and watched as Peter served through the table, pushing through the door to the restroom. After a moment of thought and a sip of coffee, Mozzie flagged down the waiter.

* * *

Peter walked back towards the table as the heavy door of the entrance shut, furrowing his brow as he realized Mozzie was missing. He took a quick look around the small restaurant before sliding back into his chair, picking up a napkin with a few word scribbled onto it.

_Took care of the check, happy birthday._

_Mozzie_

_P.S. Enjoy the cupcake_

"Cupcake?" Peter mumbled, looking at the table as a waiter approached him with a small white plate.

"Happy birthday," the waiter smiled, setting a cupcake down in front of him, a lone white candle burning on top. Peter scoffed in disbelief, thanking the waiter. Peter shook his head, taking one last glance around the café for Mozzie.

"Happy birthday, Peter," said Peter, taking in a breath and blowing out the candle.

* * *

Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? ...Bueller?


	4. Quatre

**Author's Note: **Here it is, chapter four! Silly as it sounds, I'm incredibly proud of myself for keeping up with a story as consistently as I am with this one, and that I actually like the chapters that I'm writing. This is a big deal for me, people. So is the SNOW that's falling outsdie of my window! It's a winter wonderland over here at my casa; it is _so tinsel__! _(Kudos and a free Matt Bomer icon to whoever can correctly name the quote in the preceeding sentence. Two Matt Bomer icons if you can name the character who spoke the quote. :) No cheating or you have eat a pumpkin!) This chapter is a bit shorter, and acts as more a filler to move things along in the story and get the boys where I want them to go (sort of like the second chapter), but I think it's pretty good. Enjoy, and if it's cold where you are, stay warm!

**Disclaimer:** -**long, mournful sigh**-

**Warnings:** See first chapter.

* * *

He was tired. The kind of tired that you can feel deep down in you bones that comes after a day where you were on your feet too long and you didn't eat enough and you feel like you could collapse at any moment. Peter was tired, and stepping into the apartment, he wished he'd just stayed at work.

Jack, the British man Peter had been living with for the past two months, was drunk - again. And mad, very mad.

"Where've you been all day?" Jack asked as Peter shook the snow out of his hair and took of his jacket.

"At work," said Peter. "You know that."

"I thou' you get off a work at six," said Jack.

"That's on the weekends when I work at the museum," Peter explained. "Today's Wednesday, so I went to the diner."

"Lie!" Jack shouted, getting up from the couch.

"It's not," Peter insisted, his hands balling into protective fists at his sides. "I promise, I was there all day."

"Don't lie to me!"

"I'm not lying--"

"Shut your mouth when I'm talkin' to you!" said Jack. "Didn't your mum ever teach you to shut it when someone else is speakin'?"

"You weren't even talking," Peter defended.

"Don't you go accussing _me_ of lying, now," said Jack, walking towards Peter. Peter felt a fearful heat creep up his neck and into his face as he backed himself into the wall. "It's high time you learned some manners, boy."

Peter raised his hands and Jack grabbed onto his wrists, holding them tight as he breathed alcohol onto Peter's face. Peter twisted out of Jack's grip, stumbling off into the table beside the couch and knocking over a tall bottle of beer.

"You _idiot_!" said Jack. "Loo' what you did!"

"I'm sorry," Peter breathed.

"Get out'a my house," Jack slurred.

Peter felt his chest clench around his heart; where would he go?

"NOW!" Spit flew Jack's mouth as he barked the order at Peter, Peter's stomach flipping over at his tone of voice.

"Okay, okay, just let me get my stuff," Peter reasoned.

"Two minutes!" said Jack, holding up three fingers. "You go' two minutes and you're out. An' I want your half of the rent!"

"Right, two minutes," Peter nodded. He hurried off to the back room, throwing his books, pictures, and other valubles into a bag, covering them with what little clothes he could. He pulled a wad of money out from beneath his mattress and pushed it into his pocket. He slipped into his jacket, pulled a knit hat over his head, and wrapped a scarf around his neck. He walked back out into the living room, Jack passed out on the couch with his head hanging off the side. Peter shook his head, tossing the couple hundred he owed Jack on top of the TV. Taking one last glance around the apartment, Peter left without a word.

* * *

The night was bitterly and unusually cold for a Manhattan January, the temperature close to the single digits with snow falling all around. Peter pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up, buttoning up his coat as he tried to remember what street he was on. Where was that mission he stayed at when he first ran? Or the women's shelter? Maybe St. Patrick's is open--

"Why is it we keep meeting like this?"

Peter turned, squinting through the snow to see an old tan Toyota idling beside him. Inside was an all too familiar pair of brown glasses and a balding head - Mozzie.

Peter let out a breath, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. "Couldn't tell you."

"You need a ride?" Mozzie asked.

"Don't really know where I'm going," Peter admitted, shrugging.

"I do," said Mozzie. "Get in."

After a slight second of hesitation Peter walked around to the passenger side, Mozzie leaning over to unlock the door, and he slid inside.

"You can throw your stuff in the back, and the heater gave out this morning, so I suggest keeping that hood on," said Mozzie, motioning to Peter's head with his gloved hands.

Peter nodded, placing his bag on the backseat and pulling his hat down a little lower over his ears.

The ride was silent, for which Peter was grateful as he body grew more exhausted with each passing mile. Mozzie had on some classical station which cut out every time he hit the brakes, but Mozzie insisted they listen. Despite the fact, Peter was just happy to be out of the storm.

"We're here," said Mozzie, waking Peter from his half-sleep.

Peter blinked, rubbing his eyes and stretching out his arms. He grabbed his bag from the back, slinging it over his shoulder and stepping out of the car. As the snow thinned and the moon shone Peter saw that they'd driven to Mozzie's apartment. He looked at Mozzie, a look of surprise and confusion on his face. Mozzie ignored him, walking towards the door. Peter followed after, walking behind Mozzie up the narrow staircase to the apartment.

"As you already know, the couch is more better than the pull-out," said Mozzie, unlocking the door. "And there's left-over Chinese from lunch you can heat up. I hope you like shrimp stir-fry."

Peter's stomach growled loudly and Mozzie snorted, walking to the fridge and pulling out a small take-out box. "Guess you do."

"Use the shower if you want, just let the water heat up." said Mozzie, walking towards his bedroom. Neal popped the take out into the microwave, letting it warm up before grabbing a fork off the counter and beginning to eat.

"I got a couple channels you can watch, just the local stations, but you might be able to find a good infomercial," said Mozzie, tossing a couple of blankets onto the couch. "I paticularly love the infomercial about the Turbo Juicer 600."

Mozzie scratched his head and looked around as if he were trying to remember something, then shrugged off his jacket.

"Well you have fun with that, I'm going to bed." Mozzie said. "Oh, and if someone comes knocking on the door late tonight asking for Miles, ignore it."

Peter snorted, rice falling from his mouth, and nodded. He swallowed, clearing his throat.

"Thank you," Peter said earnestly. "For all this."

"Yeah," Mozzie raised his hand, waving off Peter's gratitude. "'Night kid."

"Goodnight," said Peter, finishing the last of the stir-fry and dumping the box into the trash. He wiped his mouth, pulled off his coat, and walked to the couch. He pushed off his shoes and pulled off his jacket, hat, and scarf, tossing them over the armrest of the couch and reclining against the couch cushions. He turned on the TV and flipped through the few channels, getting nothing but late-night news mixed in with static. Giving up, Peter turned off the TV and tucked himself beneath the blankets Mozzie had left out. Sending up a silent "thank you" to whatever gods were out there, Peter fell asleep.

* * *

Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? ...Bueller?


	5. Cing

**Author's Note:** Hello again! Here we are, chapter five, pretty and polished and ready for the reading (and reviewing... reviewers get a free Neal icon!). First off I must thank my ever-lovely beta, Spary Dorian! Without this chick, this chapter probably wouldn't made it here in the form it is now. She corrected my errors and highlighted the awesomeness-es (literally). Here's to you, Sparky!

**Disclaimer:** No, I do not own White Collar or any other recognizable names/places.

**Warnings:** See first chapter.

**Decoder:** Everything bolded are Neal's thoughts.

* * *

**If asked, Peter was never sure how he would truthfully explain the relationship he had with Mozzie. Mozzie always took on different roles when they were seen out in the world together; when Mozzie showed up at the diner and Peter stopped to eat lunch with him, Peter would tell Gloria that he'd recently moved in to the apartment next to Mozzie and they talked often (which wasn't a total lie; more of half-truth with some embellishment). At the record shop, Mozzie was someone Peter had met walking home one night from work (which was mostly the truth, except those at the store always assumed it was when Peter was walking home from the record store, and Peter never stopped to correct them). At The Met, Mozzie was a close uncle, (a complete lie, yet every coworker of Peter's would claim "Oh, yes, I see it. You have the same ears/nose/chin."). But when it was just the two of them alone - like they were now, eating breakfast at their kitchen table and reading the newspaper (they'd recently moved to a bigger, nicer apartment closer to Central Park) - Peter would begin to wonder; what category would Mozzie fall under in the "People Of My Life" list?**

"What's your name?" Mozzie asked, taking a bite of his toast.

"Peter," Peter said simply, twisting a pen through his fingers as he surveyed the crossword puzzle he was working on.

"Your _real_ name."

"That is my real name."

"No, that's the name you go by. I want the name on your birth certificate," said Mozzie.

"I want the name on _your_ birth certificate," Peter countered.

"We're not talking about me, we're takling about you."

Peter was silent for a moment, setting the puzzle down on the table so he could fill in a line. "Neal."

"Neal what?"

"What's it matter?"

"Just tell me."

"Caffrey. Neal Caffrey."

"Where're you from?" asked Mozzie.

"Right here," Neal answered.

"Tell me about your parents."

"Not much to tell." Neal scribbled something on the paper, filling out another line of the puzzle.

"Tell me anyways."

"Mom left when I was five, Dad started drinking when I was eleven," said Neal.

"Have you seen him since?"

"Once, as a passing glance. He didn't see me."

"Do you _want_ to see him?"

"No." The answer came quick, delivered with barely any thought because Neal already knew the answer. Mozzie looked up at him. Neal's eyes were still on the puzzle.

"When'd you run away?" Mozzie asked after a minute.

Neal thought for a moment, the pen stopping. He filled in a line in the puzzle. "Back in September."

"Where'd you stay?"

"Wherever I could," said Neal. "Missions, homeless shelters, women's shelter... Whoever wanted to put up with me."

Mozzie was silent, contemplating what life was like bouncing around from place to place for someone as young as Neal.

"My turn to ask questions," said Neal, breaking Mozzie from his thoughts. "What's your name?"

"I don't like my real name," said Mozzie.

"I'll still call you Mozzie," Neal offered.

"Miles," Mozzie admitted. "Miles Weatherbee."

"_Weatherbee_?" Neal repeated with a questioning smile. "Is that even a real name?"

Mozzie shrugged. "I told you don't like it."

Neal filled in another word on the puzzle. "How old are you?"

"Thirty-one."

"Where do you work?" Neal asked.

"Here and there."

"That's not an answer," said Neal, looking at Mozzie.

"It's hard to explain..."

"I got time,"

Mozzie took in a breath, "I... take things."

"Take things?" Neal's eyebrows pushed themselves towards each other in a look of confusion. "You mean steal them?"

"'Steal' is such a harsh word," said Mozzie. "I prefer the terms 'take' and 'lift'."

"So you're a thief," said Neal, his eyes never straying from the puzzle.

"Again with the harsh words," Mozzie moaned.

"Con artist?"

"Ehh." Mozzie shrugged.

"You do that for a living?" asked Neal.

"What, you think I'm lying?" asked Mozzie.

"No, I just always pictured con artists to be suave, cunning smooth-talkers," Neal said.

"You don't think I'm suave?"

Neal looked up from the paper. "Do you actually want me to answer that question?"

Mozzie stared back at Neal. "...No. But you know, we can't all be tall and pretty ladies' men like you."

"Oh, so now you're calling _me_ a con artist?" asked Neal.

"Well, what other name would give to someone who's lied their way through the past six months of their lives?"

"Touché," Neal responded after a pause, filling in the last line of the puzzle and laying it on the table. Mozzie furrowed his brow and took the paper, looking at the puzzle.

"You're done?" asked Mozzie. "This is the New York Times Super Saturday crossword."

Neal shrugged. "Not that hard."

"I haven't even finished my breakfast," said Mozzie. He shook his head. "You got a brain in there, kid. Why aren't you in school?"

"Don't care much for what they teach," Neal explained, continuing to twist the pen through his fingers.

**Neal wasn't sure how to describe his relationship with Mozzie just yet. At this point he wasn't sure how to describe anything in his life, but Mozzie was different. He wasn't trying to convert him to some religion, or trying to sleep with him, or abusing him,. He wasn't yelling at Neal - hell, Mozzie barely spoke to Neal. They lived a life of comfortable silence, their lives playing out the way they had before the two had met. Neal considered Mozzie a close acquaintance at the moment, the person listed in his wallet as his emergency contact (though that was mostly by necessity) and the one Neal would call if he ever found himself stranded and in need of a ride. Mozzie was... a friend? What was a friend? Someone who looked out for you, made sure you weren't getting into too much trouble.**

"What if I could get you into one of the best art schools in New York?"

"Why art?" Neal asked.

**A friend was someone who complimented your talent and pushed you to succeed. **

"I saw the sketches you did in your book," said Mozzie. Neal's pen stopped twisting, a look of annoyance on his face.

"It was lying on the table," Mozzie said innocently. "The point is you're good, Neal. Good enough to get into one of those schools."

**A friend was someone who helped you even if they didn't want to, even if it cost them their time or money, or in some cases, their sanity.**

"Like either of us have the money to get into 'one of those schools.'" Neal rolled his eyes lightly.

"You leave the money to me," said Mozzie. "How does the Alexander Mark School of Fine Arts sound to you?"

**So maybe Mozzie was a friend, one of the select few Neal's ever chosen to call such. Maybe Mozzie was sticking around for the long run, watching out for Neal when he had to and joking with him when he chose to. His friend, Mozzie... it sounded nice rolling around Neal's head as he digested Mozzie's question.**

Neal shrugged, a playfully nonchalant look on his face. "'S got a nice ring to it."

"Sure does, kid." Mozzie smiled. "Sure does."

* * *

Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? ...Bueller?


	6. Six

**Author's Note: **Sorry it's been five (gah!) long months since I last updated; ideas just sort of... fizzled. But now I'm back with a new chapter (and new ideas) so this baby should get right back on track. Thanks for all the reviews, alerts, and favorites I continue to get for this story; y'all are great. This one's for you! Also, if anyone has any prompts or ideas they would like to see in the story, shoot me a PM or leave the idea in your review; I just might use it!

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable names and/or places are the property of their respective owners.

**Warnings:** See first chapter.

* * *

It was a blustery May morning; the sky was clear and the sun shone down brightly over busy Manhattan.

Disgruntled, Mozzie quick-stepped down the street, hands deep in his jacket pockets. There was a showing of students' work at Neal's school today, the fifth that Neal's art has been showcased in. Mozzie typically avoided them as much as possible; he never did like making small talk, and there were far too many cameras around the school for his liking. He'd been successful in evading the last four, conjuring up an excuse each time, but the school felt he was being a poor father, not showing his support for his son's "beautiful gift." Phone calls everyday to the apartment made it practically impossible to avoid the dean's request for his presence, so Mozzie finally - grudgingly - gave in. Tonight the school was showcasing paintings or sculptures the students recreated. They were each assigned a piece that they were to recreate.

Mumbling to himself, Mozzie pushed through the tall oak doors of the school, greeted immediately by the sound of far-off conversation. After poking around for a moment, Mozzie finally made it to the exhibit. Looking around, Mozzie found Neal in an instant; his confident stance and infectious laughter made him impossible to miss. Starting towards him, Mozzie was stopped instantly by a woman.

"I'm sorry sir, but it seems you've forgotten to check in." The woman was short and plump, her hair dark and just the same, and a warm, welcoming smile was on her face. "There's a table right over there; here, let me help you."

"Oh, alright," said Mozzie, glancing back over his shoulder at Neal as the woman directed him towards a table.

"Name, please?" she said, looking at him expectantly.

"Frank Lloret," Mozzie answered.

"Lloret? You must be Geoffrey's father!" she said. "I'm Nina Dawson, I teach art history here at the school. I must say, your son is _brilliant_, incredibly gifted. You must be very proud."

"Oh, I definitely lucked out with that one," said Mozzie, an awkward smile forming.

"The other students just love Geoffrey," said Nina, handing Mozzie a name tag with his name on it. "He's fitting in very well for someone who just recently moved here, what, three months ago?"

"Four," Mozzie corrected.

"Well either way, he's just fabulous and his work is all the buzz tonight. Frank, it's great to finally see you at one of these, now please, go mingle!"

Nina gave Mozzie a light, playful shove, to which he responded to by stumbling foward and just barely catching himself. After clearing his throat and nodding to a man who had stopped to stare, he started off towards Neal again. Getting closer, he grabbed a glass of wine from a nearby snack table and watched from the corner of his eyes as Neal chatted up a young blonde. Mozzie scoffed, picking up a small plate of crabcakes, and made his way over.

"Geoffrey," said Mozzie, nodding to Neal. Neal looked away from the girl and smiled.

"Dad!" said Neal. "Nice of you to finally make it. I'd like you to meet Whitney, your future daughter-in-law."

"Stop it Geoffrey," Whitney squeaked, a smitten smile on her lips as she slapped Neal on the shoulder. Neal and Mozzie laughed as she blushed.

"I'll see you later," said Whitney.

"See you," said Neal, watching as she skirted off.

"She's quite the charmer," said Mozzie. "Should I expect to see her in the apartment anytime soon?"

Neal shook his head. "She's a little too young; just turned fifteen."

"Love knows no age, young Geoffrey," Mozzie reminded. Neal scoffed.

"When did you become Mr. Philosophical?" Neal questioned.

"No back-talking your father," said Mozzie, to which Neal laughed out loud.

"Yes, Father," said Neal.

Mozzie rolled his eyes. "Now where's that painting everyone's raving about? Your art teacher Nina told me it's 'all the buzz' tonight."

"Over there," said Neal, guesturing across the large room with his hand.

When they reached the painting, Mozzie blinked; it was flawless. Sure, Mozzie knew Neal could draw, he was in one of the most prestigious art schools in New York, but all Mozzie had seen was pictures Neal left lying around; half-finished profiles, choppy pictures of a bird in flight, rough landscapes. This, this was beautiful. Each color blended together yet stood out perfectly on it's own. Mozzie saw no hesitation in Neal's work, no pausing, just clean, smooth strokes.

"What do you think, Dad?" said Neal. "Pretty good?"

"Yeah, it's great," said Mozzie. "Impeccable, actually."

"Thank you," Neal nodded.

"You could have a great career with skills like that," said Mozzie.

"I don't really think I want 'artist' to be my title."

"I never said anything about being an artist," said Mozzie. "Artist _create_ art."

"...Don't see where you're going with this one, Pops."

"This is a rather exceptional forgery, Geoffrey," said Mozzie, glancing sideways at Neal. Neal raised his eyebrows, crossing his arms over his chest. He glanced around the room, seeing how many people were within ear shot. None that were paying attention, Neal gathered.

"It would seem as though you're suggesting something that could get me in quite a bit of trouble," said Neal.

"Not if you don't get caught," Mozzie replied, to which Neal's lips cracked a smile. "You still need to learn a few things, but you could go far."

"Think so?" Neal asked, cocking his head to the side and looking at his painting.

"Mm-hmm," Mozzie nodded. Neal let out a breath.

"You know, you really are a bad role-model as a father," Neal noted. Mozzie shrugged, waving his wine glass at Neal.

"It's not my fault your mother left me to raise a son all by myself."

* * *

Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? ...Bueller?


	7. Sept

**Author's Note: **Hello again! This is the newest installment in our little series, lucky chapter number seven, as they say. This was written after a prompt from Sparky Dorian, my most lovely beta. The prompt consisted of me writing a chapter where Neal either remembers or finds out about Mozzie's (less than exciting) 30th birthday and does something nice for the old man. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable names and/or places are property of their respective owners.

**Warnings:** See first chapter.

_Ages: Neal, 16; Mozzie, 30._

* * *

"Hey Moz?" Neal said, pulling milk out of the fridge.

Mozzie looked up from the paper lying on the kitchen table, a bewildered look on his face. "_Moz_?"

"What?" Neal turned towards Mozzie and opened the carton. "You dont like 'Moz'?"

"Meh," Mozzie shrugged.

"What's wrong with 'Moz'?"

"Nothing, it's just... not my name."

"Technially, 'Mozzie' isn't your name either. It's a nickname."

"It's my given name."

"Then Moz can be your nickname."

"Meh," Mozzie shrugged again. "Alright."

"Moving on," said Neal, grabbing a glass and pouring milk into it. Taking a drink, he tapped the calendar hanging on the fridge. "Why's the third marked on your calendar?"

"I don't know."

"It has to be marked for a reason," said Neal, leaning back against the counter.

"Yes, well I've forgotten what that reason is." Mozzie snapped the paper straight, pushing his glasses farther up his nose.

"Working a job?" Neal asked, crossing from the kitchen into the living room. Mozzie shook his head.

"Funeral?"

"Yes, that's it, for one of the many friends I keep in touch with," Mozzie said sarcastically, looking up at Neal. He looked back at the newspaper. "No."

"Birthday?"

Mozzie froze, a bead of sweat forming along his receding hairline. He acted as if he hadn't heard Neal's question.

"Moz?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear what you said," Mozzie took a glance up at Neal.

"Is it because of a birthday?"

"Nope, that's not it either." Mozzie swallowed harshly, rubbing his forehead nervously. Neal pushed away from the counter, crossing the floor to the table and taking a seat beside Mozzie.

"It's your birthday, isn't it?" asked Neal.

"I already told you, no," said Mozzie, an annoyed tone to his voice.

"You know, for someone who makes their business in sweet talking and lying, you're really bad at it."

"I'm not lying about anything," Mozzie insisted.

"Then why're you sweating?"

"Alright, it's my birthday, stop the interrogation!" Mozzie exclaimed, slamming his hands on the table before rising from his chair.

"Jeez, what's wrong with you?" said Neal. "Normal people tend to get excited about their birthdays."

"Well, I think you know enough about me to know that I'm not like normal people."

"That's for sure," Neal muttered, taking another drink.

"I heard that," said Mozzie. "And you know what I mean. I just don't like birthdays, alright? Plain and simple."

Mozzie moved towards the counter, grabbing a mug and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"Why?" asked Neal.

"Why what?"

"Why don't you like birthdays?" Neal asked.

"I just don't," Mozzie answered.

"Come on, there has to be a reason."

"Let's put it this way: I had a very bad experience with a birthday clown when I was younger. Now drop it."

"Alright, Grumpy," said Neal.

"Just treat Tuesday the way you would treat any other day."

"Gotcha."

"_Neal_."

"What?" Neal said innocently. "I said 'gotcha.'"

* * *

Mozzie stumbled out of bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and putting his glasses on.

"Neal?" Mozzie called. "I don't hear the coffee maker. You know the rules; you wake up first, you put the coffee on-"

Mozzie rounded the corner to the kitchen, stopping when he saw a small wrapped package sitting on the table, a steaming mug of coffee beside it. Mozzie sighed, walking over and picking up the note that was tucked inside the ribbon.

_The Met's premiering a new exhibit today, so they needed me at work early. Enjoy your coffee. Happy birthday._

_Neal_

Pulling off the wrapping, Mozzie revealed a small-scale, Neal Caffrey forgery of Van Gogh's _Starry Night Over the Rhône_, a favorite of Mozzie's. Mozzie shook his head, smiling lightly to himself as he looked for a place the prop the portrait up. He decided on the bookcase in the living room, next to the art books and against a vase Mozzie stole once upon a time. He sipped at the coffee in his hand, looking at the painting.

"Nicely done, Caffrey," Mozzie said, nodding at the painting. "Nicely done."

* * *

Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? ...Bueller?


	8. Huit

**Author's Note:** Hello! We've reached the eigth installment in "Un Moments," and this one's a doozy; nearly three-thousand words worth of Neal Caffrey fun. What's not to love? In this chapter, Peter Burke is (finally) introduced, and I'm über excited for everyone to read about how (I imagine) they met. I particularly enjoy this chapter, so I'm hoping y'all do, as well. :) Before we start, I have to say a big big BIG thank you to my beta, Sparky Dorian, who helped me immensely with this chapter; you are the bomb! Also, like I said before, if you guys have any prompts for me or ideas you would like to see in the story, PLEASE shoot me a PM or leave the suggestion in your review! I'm more than open to fresh ideas. :)

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable names and/or places are the property of their respective owners.

**Warnings: **See first chapter.

* * *

_Ages: Neal, 16; Peter, 27._

Unzipping his sweatshirt, Neal took in a breath of the cool, fresh air - well, as fresh as Manhattan air could be. June was here and spring was in full swing; the air was warmer, the grass was greener, and walks around the city didn't leave you with a red nose and ice chips in your hair. Neal walked slowly down the street, his hands tucked into his pockets as the sun shone down his back. Fingering the twenty in his pocket, he replayed the grocery list Mozzie had shouted to him as he left; milk, bread, two Mars Bars, and a bottle of Gatorade.

Jogging across the street, Neal pulled open the door to the convenience store. He walked around the store, gathering the things he needed in his arms as the bell above the door chimed. Two men grazed past him and Neal took at glance at them as they walked by. One of the men placed his hands on his hips, momentarily flashing the gun tucked into his waistband. Neal felt his face flush, his heart pounding; he didn't like guns. Guns meant bad things. Neal looked towards the door, seeing two police cars pulling up in front. Mozzie always said never trust a boy in blue, but these were special circumstances. Striding towards the front of the store, Neal waited until the clerk's back was turned to slip out the door, triggering the alarm. The two officers standing outside the car looked towards Neal.

"Oh great," Neal rolled his eyes at the items in his hands.

"Hey, kid," one of the officers said. "You trying-"

"I know this looks bad, but there's a guy in there with a gun-"

Screaming cut Neal off; the men inside had pulled their guns and were pointing them at the clerk.

"Dammit!" an officer exclaimed. Two of the officers funneled inside the store, one of them calling over his shoulder, "call it in, Peter!"

Watching through the windows as the men were arrested, Neal began to toe away from the scene; he didn't want to get caught up with being a witness. Turning around, he walked into the chest of one of the police officers.

"Quite a hero, aren't you, kid?"

"Well, _hero_ is a bit of an exaggeration," Neal took a step back from the officer. "Just trying to be a good citizen."

"And as a good citizen, you wouldn't mind coming down to the station to answer a few questions, right?" The officer smiled. "Or emptying your pockets?"

"Yes, I would have a problem," Neal said. "You have no right to do that."

"Oh, but I do," said the officer. "How'd you know he had a gun?"

"I saw it when he moved his arms, now can I go?"

"Yes, with me, down to the station," said the officer.

"It's Peter, right?" Neal said, offering up his most charming smile.

"Officer Burke," Peter corrected.

"Officer Burke," Neal continued. "Now do you really think I had anything to do with those two?" Neal motioned to the two handcuffed men being pushed into a squad car.

"Maybe not, but I can hold you for suspicious behavior," said Peter. "And shoplifting. Now in the car, and leave the groceries."

Neal grudgingly left the items on the sidewalk, rolling his eyes as Peter held open the back door of the police car for him. He plopped down in the seat and sighed.

"I wasn't doing anything," said Neal as Peter slid into the drivers seat. "Just picking up some groceries. I was going to pay for them you know, that's what this twenty is for."

Neal waved a twenty at the rearview mirror as they pulled away from the sidewalk.

"You were acting pretty suspicious for something just picking up some groceries," Peter noted.

"How was I acting suspicious?" Neal questioned.

"Not many people try to sneak away from a crime scene unless they have something to hide."

"Well I'm sorry, I was in a daze from narrowly escaping possible being taken hostage," said Neal. "And I have to get home."

"For what?" asked Peter.

"Homework for a summer program I'm in," Neal lied. "And I still don't see why I'm in this car, I wasn't doing anything wrong."

"I already told you; I can hold you on suspicious behavior and shoplifting," said Peter, looking at Neal through the rearveiw mirror.

"I was going to pay for the groceries!"

* * *

"Really?" said Neal, looking from the holding cell to Peter. "Is this necessary?"

"Standard protocal, kid," said Peter, sliding open the bars. Neal stepped inside, grimacing when he heard the bars lock behind him. Turning around, he saw Peter take a seat at his desk.

"You know, this is all just a big misunderstanding," said Neal.

"I'm sure it is," said Peter, sifting through some papers.

"I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"I'm sure you were."

Neal sighed, leaning against the bars. "Don't I get a phone call?"

Peter pushed himself up from the chair, walking to the cell and unlocking it, pulling back the bars. Peter took Neal's arm and led him down the hall to the payphone.

"You got a couple quarters?" Neal asked, looking at Peter. Peter raised an eyebrow and Neal looked away, digging through his pockets.

"Oh, found some," said Neal, smiling and proudly showing Peter the spare change he'd found. Peter crossed his arms and Neal dropped some coins into the slot and dialed.

"C'mon, pick up the phone," said Neal, tapping his foot impatiently against the floor. He groaned, the phone continuing to ring.

_"Hey, I'm out, leave me a message."_

Neal closed his eyes and grit his teeth at the machine picking up, rubbing his forehead in annoyance. "Hey, it's me. I got in a little trouble tonight, and I need you to come pick me up. I'm at the police station over on uh... Tenth?" Neal said, looking over his shoulder at Peter. Peter nodded.

"The station over on Tenth," said Neal. "So if you could get her quickly, I'd really appreciate it. 'Kay, see you later, bye."

Neal hung up the phone, scooping the rest of his quarters off the top of the phone and shoving it back in his pocket. "He should be here soon."

Peter took Neal's arm and led him back to the cell, locking him inside. Peter took a seat at his desk, clicking on the lamp. He looked over as Neal poked around the cell, examing the graffiti and cracks on the walls. Taking a glance at the clock, Peter had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

* * *

"What time's it?" Neal asked, yawning. He stretched his legs out in front of him, trying to rub feeling back into his thigh. Peter, who was reclining in his desk chair with a newspaper, checked his watch.

"Quarter to nine," Peter answered.

"How long have I been here?"

"Little over two hours."

Neal sighed loudly, letting his head fall back against the brick wall. "Can't I just leave?"

"Somebody's got to bail you out."

"For _what_?"

"Shoplifting."

"I walked three feet away from the door before putting the food back!" said Neal, his frustration growing by the minute.

"Look, I don't want to be here anymore than you do, alright?" said Peter. "If I could let you go, I would; I've got better things to be doing than sitting here listening to a whiny teenager."

"I'm not whiny," Neal defended. Peter scoffed.

Neal laced his fingers over his stomach, whistling for a minute or so.

"How long have you been a cop?" Neal asked.

"Three years."

"What made you decide to be a cop?"

"My parents wanted me to be a doctor."

Neal chuckled.

"How old are you?" asked Neal.

"Twenty-seven," Peter answered after a pause. "You?"

Neal hesitated; how old should he say he was? Sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one?

"Sixteen," Neal answered, figuring it didn't matter, since he'd never see Peter again.

"Was that one of your parents you called?" Peter asked.

"Uncle," Neal responded smoothly. "So, you have a girlfriend? Wife?"

"That's none of your business."

"Bitterly single, I see."

"'M not bitter."

Neal held up his hands. "Whatever you say, Peter."

"Officer Burke," Peter said pointedly.

"Seen any good movies lately?" Neal asked.

"No."

"Read any good books?"

"No."

"Seen any plays?"

"No."

"Been to any concerts?"

"_No._"

Neal thought for a moment, his stomach growling. "You know any good Chinese restaurants around here, Officer Burke?"

"For Pete's sake, kid, be _quiet_," Peter said, exasperated.

"I'm just trying to make conversation," Neal said innocently. "But fine, I won't talk to you anymore."

Peter leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. Neal brought his knees up to his chest, resting his arms on his knees.

"_I__n the morning mist, two lovers kissed and the whole world stood still_," Neal sang to himself, playing with his fingers, the words growing louder as he continued the song. "_Then your fingers touched my silent **heart** and taught it_-"

"God, where's your friend, kid?" Peter asked, sliding his feet off his desk and letting them slam onto the floor.

"Pffft," Neal shrugged. "Beats me. And be happy, you're the one on the good side of the bars."

Peter opened his mouth to respond but stopped; this kid wasn't going to get the best of him. Neal looked at him, his eyebrows raised.

"What?" asked Peter. "What're you looking at me like that for?"

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

"Yes you are, now stop it."

"How can I stop something I'm not doing?"

Peter groaned, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. "Forget it."

Neal yawned loudly, rubbing his arms. "What's a guy got to do to get a blanket around here? It's freezing."

"There's a blanket on your cot."

Neal felt the blanket beneath him, grimacing. "This is like, two hundred thread count."

"It's better than nothing," Peter shrugged.

Neal stretched his legs out on the bed, scrubbing his face. "What about my sweatshirt?"

"You didn't have a sweatshirt," said Peter, looking over at Neal.

"Yes; you took it off at the front desk when I first got here because I had my lock picking kit in it and you never gave it back. It's a grey zip-up; my lock pick is in the right pocket, and eighty-seven cents is in the left. Two quarters, three dimes, two pennys, and nickle." said Neal. "Go look. You can have the twenty I was going to _buy groceries with_ if I'm wrong," Neal patted the pocket at his thigh and raised his eyebrows at Peter.

Peter sighed, getting up from his desk and walking into the lobby. "Hey Randy, do you have a grey zip-up sweatshirt over there?"

"Grey zip-up? You mean the one you got from the kid?" asked Randy, holding up a thin grey hoodie. Peter let his shoulders sag; the kid was right. Peter walked up to the desk, taking the jacket from Randy and plunged his hand into the left pocket, pulling out - like Neal said - two quarters, three dimes, two pennys, and nickle. He let out a grunt of annoyance and shook his head, walking back into the squad room.

"Told you," said Neal.

"Just come get your jacket," said Peter, holding it up to the bars. Neal came over and pulled it through, slipping it on. Sitting back on the cot, Neal felt around his pockets.

"Where's my lock pick?" asked Neal, looking up at Peter. Peter held it up, waving it at Neal. "Can I have it back, please?"

"I don't trust you with this," said Peter.

Neal shrugged with a slightly rueful look. "I wouldn't, either."

* * *

Peter tiredly looked over at Neal curled up on the bed, his hair falling over his pale, tired face in sleep, and sighed. Peter's mother was right; he was a softie. He looked at the clock, seeing it had just ticked past eleven, and pushed himself up from his desk. Grabbing his check book, his signed off for Neal's bail and left it at the front desk. Peter walked back over to the cell, pushing the key into the lock. Neal stirred at the loud squeak as the door slid open. He squinted up at Peter, pushing hair from his face.

"Come on, kid," said Peter.

"Hmm?" said Neal, rubbing his eyes.

"Bail's been posted, it's time to go home." said Peter.

"Where is he?" asked Neal.

"Who?"

"My uncle," said Neal. "You said my bail's been posted."

"Oh, uh, he paid it over the phone," Peter lied. "He couldn't make it out here, so I said I'd give you a lift home."

Neal looked at Peter suspiciously, his eyebrows raised at him. Peter shook it off.

"Come on, it's late, I want to get home," said Peter.

* * *

"Uncle George," Neal called, knocking on the door. "It's me, open up."

Looking down, Neal sighed, taking notice of the rubber band hanging around the door knob.

"What?" asked Peter.

"He's not home," said Neal, pulling the rubber band off the knob.

"Don't you have a key?"

"Yeah, but I lost it," said Neal. He went through his pockets then sighed, rolling his eyes. "And _somebody_ took my lock pick."

"I forgot it at the station," Peter shrugged.

"Sure you did," Neal said, looking at Peter. "Okay... You have a hair pin or a couple of paperclips?"

Peter searched his pockets, pulling out a paper clip and handing it to Neal. Neal took it, bending it until he got the shape he desired and carefully sliding through the lock on the door. After a minute of fiddling around with the clip, the lock clicked.

"Gotcha," said Neal, pushing open the door. He handed the paper clip back to Peter. "Thanks."

Peter stared in amazement. "How'd you do that?" Neal shrugged.

"Practice," he answered simply. Walking into the house, Neal turned to look back at Peter. "Thanks for the lift home."

"No problem," said Peter. "Stay outta trouble."

"Of course," said Neal. "Not that I was in any trouble to begin with."

Peter shook his head and cracked a smile, Neal following suit.

"'Night kid."

"Goodnight, Officer Burke."

* * *

Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? ...Bueller?


	9. Neuf

**Author's Note:** Hello all! Here's a short little piece I wrote about our two favorite con men bonding over America's Past Time. This shmoopiness is dedicated to Sparky Dorian, the best beta in the world. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Any recognizable names and/or places are the property of their respective owners.

**Warnings: **See first chapter.

* * *

"Hey Mozzie, you want to go to a ball game?"

Mozzie looked up from his book and towards Neal. "Ball game?"

"Yeah, the Yankees are playing the Sox in twenty minutes," said Neal. "We can make it in time for the first pitch."

"Watching men whack a piece of wood at a tiny little ball? No thank you."

"Come on, it'll be fun!" said Neal.

"Even if we were to get there in time, you really think we could get tickets to a game against the Sox in the middle of the season? Please." Mozzie waved off the idea and went back to his book.

"Who said anything about buying tickets?" Neal questioned innocently. Mozzie paused for a moment, looking up Neal.

"I like the way you think, son."

"Well thanks, Dad."

* * *

"Come on, come on - there we go! That's what I'm talking about; home run!"

Mozzie looked over at Neal as he high fived the stranger beside him. His face light up with a bright smile, his dark curls - in need of a serious trim - sticking out from beneath the Yankee cap he'd conned off the young female vendor for a five dollar bill with the phone number to their old apartment written across it.

"What?" said Neal, taking notice of Mozzie staring at him. He wiped his chin. "Do I have mustard on my face?"

"Have you _ever_ been to a baseball game before?" asked Mozzie.

Neal shrugged. "Once, as a kid."

"You are a kid."

Neal scoffed. "Hardly."

Mozzie paused.

"How old were you?"

"Five," Neal answered. "It was the night my mom left."

"She say why?" Mozzie asked.

"My dad was really fond of his belt, especially when he was mad."

Neal took a bite of the nachos in his lap, acting as if he had just told Mozzie he was thinking about buying a new pair of shoes. He looked over to Mozzie, who was staring at him again.

"You want some?" Neal asked, licking cheese off his fingers.

"Stadium food? Dear God no." Mozzie shivered.

"Says the man drinking dollar beer out of a plastic cup."

"In my defense, they didn't carry my brand of chardonnay."

"You mean _Franzia_?"

"You think you're really clever, don't you?"

"And exceedingly adorable." Neal smiled at Mozzie, his large dimples showing through the fading layer of baby fat on his face. Neal turned his attention back to the game just as a player struck out.

"Oh come on, ump, that was _clearly_ a ball! Get a pair of eyes, will ya? Jeez."

* * *

"That was fun," said Neal, taking a sip from his jumbo stadium cup. "You had fun, right?"

Mozzie shrugged. "Meh."

"Come on, you know you had fun," said Neal, nudging Mozzie as they walked across the parking lot. "I heard you throwing a couple insults at the Sox. Don't try and deny it."

"Alright, alright," Mozzie put his hands up. "I may have had a little bit of fun. Maybe."

"You're a little uptight, aren't you?"

"Well I'm sorry that I don't find a ton of enjoyment out of sitting on a plastic seat for four-plus hours," Mozzie apologized. "But it was nice to see you excited."

Neal smiled, looking down at the dirty concrete beneath them.

"You looked like a normal kid for once."

"You saying I'm not normal?"

"How many other kids at your school live with a thirty year old conman, work three jobs, and pull petty thefts on the weekends?"

"Touché," said Neal. "And I only work one job now. That's pretty normal, right, having a summer job?"

"Relatively." Mozzie paused. "You know, you don't have to live like this. My life... it's not exactly the way a sixteen year old boy should be raised."

"Then how would I live? With _parents_? In the _suburbs_? With a dog and a backyard and no criminal record? _So_ pedestrian."

Mozzie laughed, pulling his keys out of his pocket as they reached the car.

"You don't ever wish you had a normal life?"

"Not really. I mean, I wouldn't even know normal if it slapped me in the face." Neal shrugged, pulling the car door shut beside him. "Besides, life's more fun this way. I like living with you, Moz."

Mozzie smiled, starting up the car. "I like living with you too, kid."

* * *

Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? ...Bueller?


	10. Dix

**Author's Note:** Hey guys! This is the latest snippet into the lives of misters Neal Caffrey and Mozzie. Inspired by Sparky Dorian's prompt: Mozzie acting as Neal's father for a date. I hope you guys enjoy it!

**Disclaimer:** Any recognizable names and/or places are the property of their respective owners.

**Warnings:** See first chapter.

* * *

"Hey, Moz, I'm going out tonight," said Neal, pulling his sweatshirt on as he walked into the living room.

"Work again?"

"No, a date." Mozzie turned in his seat, raising an eyebrow at his young companion.

"Young Geoffrey has a _date_?" said Mozzie.

"Yes, he does." Neal tried to hide his smile, grabbing the keys and turning to face Mozzie.

"Girl from school?" Mozzie asked.

Neal shook his head. "From the bookstore; she was hired a month ago. She works in the children's section."

"What's her name?" Mozzie asked.

Before Neal could answer someone knocked on the door.

"You order a pizza?" Neal asked quietly. Mozzie shook his head. Neal moved towards the door, pulling it open.

"Geoffrey!" A flash bright teeth and a shock of red hair took Neal by surprise, throwing their arms around his neck.

"Juliet, hi!" said Neal, hugging her for a moment before taking a step back. "What're you doing here?"

"I know, you were going to come pick me up, but I was out running errands with my mom and we were walking right by your house, so I just figured I'd save you the trouble," Juliet explained. "I'm sorry, I should've called."

"No, no, it's fine," said Neal. "Don't worry about it. I just wish I'd've known you were coming, we could've picked up a little bit."

Just then, Mozzie cleared his throat, causing both teens to look towards him.

"Hi, I'm Juliet," said Juliet, breaking away from Neal and holding out her hand towards Mozzie. "You must be Mr. Lloret."

"Call me Frank," said Mozzie, quickly shaking her hand.

"It's great to meet you, Geoffrey talks about you all the time," said Juliet. Mozzie looked over to Neal, who casually shrugged and looked away.

"Well we should probably head out," said Neal. "Don't want to be late."

"Come on, we have twenty minutes," said Juliet. "Let's just stay a little bit. If your dad doesn't mind, that is?"

"Oh, no, please, sit," said Mozzie. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you," Juliet smiled, pulling Neal along with her to the couch. "So, Neal tells me you're an accountant? How's that?"

Mozzie shrugged. "The way it sounds."

Juliet laughed. "I've always thought a job in accounting would be fun, actually; I'm great with numbers."

"Really?" said Mozzie. "What's the square root of five hundred twenty-nine?"

"Twenty-three," Juliet answered coolly.

"What's a hundred twenty-eight divided by thirty-two?"

"Four."

"What are the first fifteen numbers of Pi?"

"Three point one four one five nine two six five three five eight nine seven nine."

Juliet smiled, cocking an eyebrow up at Mozzie, challenging him. He nodded, leaning back in his chair.

"Geoffrey only knows ten," Mozzie smiled.

"I know twelve, thank you very much," said Neal. "I'm sorry if I've been a little too busy to memorize more."

"Touchy," said Juliet, poking Neal in the ribs.

"He's always like this when he gets defensive."

"Really?" Juliet smiled over her shoulder at Neal. "What else can you tell me about him?"

"Well he's a total light-weight when it comes to pain medication," said Mozzie. "The kid gets high off Tylenol."

Juliet laughed, covering her mouth. "Seriously?"

"Alright, funny funny," said Neal. "I don't handle medication well, so what?"

"And he totally freaks out if you move his stuff and don't tell him," said Mozzie. "You should have _seen_ him yesterday; I moved his jacket from by the door to the table and he flipped!"

"He does that at work, too!" Juliet squealed. "One of the guys moved his bag the other day and Geoffrey acted like he'd been robbed."

"Okay, that's enough fun at my expense," said Neal, pushing himself up from the couch. "Come on, Juliet, we really don't want to be late."

"Oh alright, grumpy," said Juliet. "It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Lloret."

"Please, it's Frank," said Mozzie.

"Frank," Juliet smiled.

"I'll be out in just a second, Juliet," said Neal. Juliet nodded, slipping out the door.

"Smart, that one," said Mozzie. "She'd be useful."

"Eh," Neal shrugged. "No need to drag her into a life she doesn't know about. She's a terrible liar, anyway."

"Hm," Mozzie nodded. "She's cute."

Neal smiled softly. "She is, isn't she?"

"Well, be on your way; you shouldn't keep a lady waiting."

"Of course not," said Neal, crossing the apartment and pushing open the door.

* * *

Neal unlocked the door, quietly slipping into the apartment and dropping his keys onto the table by the door.

"Hey," Neal said, nodding at Mozzie who was hunched over the kitchen table.

"It's nearly twelve, I was getting ready to send out a search party," said Mozzie, not looking up from the papers in front of him. Neal snorted, looking back over his shoulder.

"Sure." Neal stepped through the living room over towards the large sliding glass doors that led to the small patio.

"So, how was it?" asked Mozzie.

"It was good," said Neal. "Movie was fun."

"What'd you see?"

"_The Nightmare Before Christmas_."

"Tim Burton is highly overrated."

"Hey, can you make a full-length, animated, stop-motion film?"

Mozzie was silent.

"Did you kiss her?"

Neal smiled to himself, looking out towards the bright full moon.

"I don't kiss and tell."

"So that's a yes."

Neal chuckled. "Yes."

"Going for a second date?" Mozzie asked, walking up behind Neal. Neal shrugged.

"Don't want to get too attached," said Neal. "Like you always say, relationships are messy."

"That's my boy." Mozzie clapped Neal on the shoulder. "I knew I raised you right."

Neal grunted, leaning against the bookcase and resting his head on the edge of the shelf.

"Neal?" said Mozzie. "You know if you want out, I can-"

"I said no, Moz," said Neal, annoyance in his voice as his eyes flicked to the side to glance at Mozzie. Mozzie held his hands up.

"Okay, I just want..." Mozzie paused.

"What?" Neal turned towards Mozzie. "What's convenient?"

Mozzie shrugged. "What's best for you."

Neal let his shoulders sag, kicking the floor with his toe.

"I'm not leaving, Moz," said Neal. "I already told you; I wasn't cut out for the normal."

Mozzie shrugged, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. "Alright, I'm going to bed. Don't touch the papers on the table."

"What is it?"

"Questions, questions." Mozzie waved his hand at Neal.

"Right, I forgot rule number two." Neal nodded, earning a loud snort from Mozzie.

"Hey Moz," said Neal quietly as Mozzie neared his bedroom door.

"Hm?"

"Thanks for looking out for me."

Mozzie shrugged. "Got to look out for my boy."

Neal smiled. "Goodnight Dad."

"Goodnight, son."

* * *

Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? ...Bueller?


	11. Onze

**Author's Note:** Hey guys! So, here's Neal and Mozzie's first big heist, recounted in vividly imaginiative details! I'm rather proud of this chapter (it only took me hours of constant backspacking and self-criticism to write), so I hope you guys enjoy it! Thank you, Sparky Dorian, for always being willing to beta and improve. :)

**Disclaimer:** Any recognizable names and/or places are the property of their respective owners.

**Warnings:** See first chapter.

* * *

Mozzie wasn't sure how it happened, how Neal became such a focal point in his life, his literal partner in crime. But between acting as Neal's father for school — which he rarely did anymore; Neal could forge a signature better than Mozzie himself — and teaching him the finer arts of both reproducing and aging a painting, it seemed Neal had become his protegé.

"Okay, Neal," said Mozzie, running his hands over Neal's shoulders to wipe the lint off his jacket. "It's time the student becomes the master."

"We're just picking up a package, Moz," said Neal, straightening his tie.

"Are you aware of what's in that package?"

"No, actually," said Neal. "You won't tell me."

"Telling you hasn't been necessary," said Mozzie.

"Will you tell me now?" asked Neal.

"You, Neal Caffrey, are going to sign for an authentic, autographed, mint condition Bob Feller baseball card." Mozzie smiled proudly at himself in the mirror, adjusting his glasses.

"A baseball card?" said Neal.

"Don't say it like that, 'a baseball card,'" said Mozzie, mocking Neal's tone. "Do you know how much that thing's worth? More than anything we've lifted before, I can tell you that."

Neal raised his eyebrows in an impressed way, letting out a breath. "Why's it being delivered to a law office?"

"Because your boss' wife will kill him if she finds out he 'wasted his money on another little toy,'" said Mozzie, rolling his eyes and putting air marks around the last few words.

"Who's it being delivered to again?" Neal asked.

"Mr. Cyrus Lee-Andrews," said Mozzie. "He's your boss who will cut off your apendages and put them through the shredder if this package is not placed on his desk the second you get it."

Neal smiled at his reflection. "I'll make sure it does."

* * *

"You pull this off, Neal, and you've officially made it to the major leagues," said Mozzie, walking alongside Neal down the sidewalk. "You'll be rolling with the big boys."

"What I've always wanted," said Neal, looking over to Mozzie and smiling.

"Your sarcasam hurts, it really does," said Mozzie, a hand over his heart. Neal scoffed.

"You took care of his tires, right?" asked Neal.

"Cy's going to need four brand new tires for that precious BMW," said Mozzie. "You got gloves and your lock pick, right?"

"Always," said Neal. "You're going to be at the park across the street, right?"

"By the fountain." Mozzie nodded as they stopped in front of the looming building where Neal was going. He handed Neal his briefcase. "You sure you're ready for this?"

"Of course," said Neal, smiling.

"This is the first con you're working by yourself."

"Yes it is."

Mozzie nodded again awkwardly, patting Neal on the shoulder and smiling. "Go get 'em, Tiger."

"'Tiger?'" Neal questioned, looking at Mozzie.

"It was the best I could do." Mozzie shrugged. "Now really, go, the truck should be getting here any minute."

Neal turned and walked away from Mozzie, jogging up the tall steps towards the law office confidently, and walked in.

"Mr. Burnett!" said Jessica, her young face brightening as Neal strode over towards the secretary's desk. "How are you?"

"Better now," Neal flashed his most charming smile at her. "And Jess, it's Harry. How are you this morning?"

"Just perfect," said Jessica. "Uh, Mr. Lee-Andrews hasn't arrived yet."

"Really?"

"He called right before you got here, said he's having car trouble," said Jessica. She dropped her voice to a low tone. "Somebody slashed his tires."

Neal's eyes widened in feigned surprise. "You're kidding!"

Jessica nodded. "He sounded _really_ upset on the phone this morning. Like, more upset than usual."

"I would imagine," Neal snorted, sharing a laugh with Jessica and looking towards the door. Mozzie was standing outside the glass doors, gesturing erractically for Neal to _get over there right now._

"Excuse me for a minute, Jess," said Neal, looking back at Jessica before heading towards the bathroom. Neal glanced over his shoulder, seeing that Jessica's head was turned, and quickly made his way out the front door.

"We have a problem," said Mozzie, immediately pulling Neal behind one of the building's large pillars.

"What?"

"Your boss just pulled up," said Mozzie.

"What? How? I thought you said you took care of his tires last night!" said Neal.

"I did!" said Mozzie. "I didn't think he'd take his wife's car!"

Neal groaned, running a hand through his hair.

"We can't let this one slip away," said Mozzie. "We need cash, Neal."

"_I know_," said Neal, rubbing his forehead. "Okay, Moz, give me your coffee."

"What?"

"I need your coffee," said Neal, taking the coffee from Mozzie's hand.

"But I just-"

"He's walking up," Neal breathed before emerging from behind the pillar. "Good morning Mr. Lee-Andrews! How are you, sir?"

"Testy," answered Cyrus.

"Nothing a little coffee can't help, right?" said Neal as he offered the cup to the man. Cyrus grabbed it and Neal jogged ahead to hold open the door. Cyrus took a sip and paused, looking at Neal.

"What'd you put in this?" Cyrus questioned.

"Three Irish Creme packets and two Sweet-n-Lows," Neal said smiling. "Just the way you like it."

"Hmm," Cyrus grunted, walking through the door. Taking one last glance as Mozzie, Mozzie shrugged. Neal let out a low breath and let the door close behind him.

* * *

"I'm going to need you to reschedule lunch with my wife from tomorrrow to Friday; I'm going golfing with a collegue instead," said Cyrus, walking around his desk and taking a seat.

"On it," Neal nodded. He glanced at his watch; the delivery truck would be getting here any minute, and he needed to be there to sign for it. "Anything else I can get for you, sir?'

"No," Cyrus answered. "Go."

"Yes sir."

Neal turned, his hand reaching for the door knob as the door unexpectedly swung open.

"Oh, God, Harry, I'm sorry," said Jessica, her face flushing with embarrassed color.

"No problem, Jess," said Neal, smiling. His smile faltered when he saw the large paper envelope in her hands.

"Mr. Lee-Andrews?" said Jessica, holding out the package to him. "This just arrived for you."

"Ah, yes," said Cyrus. "Thank you, Jessica."

"You're welcome, sir."

Cyrus set the package inside a desk drawer and looked at the two standing in his doorway. "_Go._"

Neal and Jessica hurried out the door, Neal pulling the door shut behind them. A panicked feeling washed over him; how was he going to pull this off?

"See you later, Harry," Jessica called walking towards the elevators, waving at him.

"See you, Jess," Neal smiled, taking a seat at his desk. He grabbed his brief case and set it on his desk, staring down into the empty middle, and thought for a moment; he needed to get Cyrus out of his office and grab the package, but the security cameras would see him. Rubbing his forehead, an idea struck Neal. He closed the brief case, leaving it at his desk and heading for the stairs. Once inside, he pulled the fire alarm on the wall, quickly running up two flights of stairs to floor five where the security room was.

Slipping through the doorway, Neal quickly moved through the hallways, locking himself in a cleaning closet to avoid the crowds of people evacuating. Letting out a shallow breath, Neal ran a hand through his hair; he had one chance to pull this all off.

Creeping out of the closet, Neal glanced around; the floor was silent, all the occupants down to lower floors. He quickly ran for the security booth, pulling on a pair of gloves, opening up his lock picking kit and crouching down in front of the door. Trying to steady his hands, Neal fiddled around with the lock.

"Come on," Neal muttered. Hearing a click, he let out a breath of relief. He pushed the door open and quickly went to work inside. Neal tore the cables that connected the camera feed and pulled out the tape holding the day's video, stomping on it until it was broken. Exiting the security room, Neal ran down two flight of stairs back to Cyrus' office, praying the elder man had been too shocked by the alarm to remember the package.

Neal quickly yanked open the drawer, scooting around papers to reveal the envelope he was looking for.

"Thank you God," Neal breathed, smiling in spite of himself. Leaving Cyrus' office, he tucked the envelope into his brief case and sprinted for the stairs.

* * *

Mozzie looked up from his paper, hearing sirens inching closer. Fire engines zoomed past the park, pulling up towards the law office where what looked like all the occupants of the building were standing.

"Oh God," said Mozzie. "Oh God, this is it. We're done. We're done!"

* * *

Neal's heart finally slowed as he walked through the park; he'd taken the long way around the building, entering the park from the east instead of the west. Eyeing the fountain they'd agreed to meet at, Neal looked around for Mozzie.

"There you are!" Mozzie shouted as Neal got close. Mozzie looked around carefully, walking quickly up to Neal. "Where the hell have you been?"

Neal shrugged. "Took the long way."

"What happened in there?" Mozzie said. "What's with the fire brigade?"

"There was a minor setback; I had to improvise," Neal explained.

"So where is it?" Mozzie asked. "You did get it, right? Please tell me you did, because Neal–"

Neal held up his briefcase, opening it to show Mozzie the envelope. Mozzie's face lit up with delight.

"Young Skywalker, you have officially earned your status as a Jedi."

"Thanks Yoda," Neal smiled, closing the brief case and letting it hang by his side.

"I'm Obi-Wan," Mozzie pointed out.

"Hmm, not sure you're tall enough to be Obi-Wan."

"Har har, Anakin. We can't all be giants, you know."

"Well of course; there's got to be a couple short guys to balance it out, right?"

"Funny, Caffrey, really. That's the best you got?"

"Oh I could go all night, Picasso."

"Hey, Pablo was a great man, no matter how short he was," said Mozzie. "And I'm taller than Picasso was; I'm five-eight."

"Whatever you say, Scorsese."

* * *

Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? ...Bueller?


	12. Douze

**Author's Note: **Hello again! In this chapter we see Neal and Mozzie bidding adieu to marvelous Manhattan. I'm very excited for this chapter, because it leads to even more marvelous adventures in their new home. Read on, and don't forget to leave a review!

**Disclaimer:** Any recognizable names and/or places are the property of their respective owners.

**Warnings: **See first chapter.

* * *

Ages: Neal, 17; Mozzie 30

Neal swung the door open, tossing his keys onto the table by the door.

"'M home," he called.

He was about to toss his backpack onto the couch, but he realized the couch was gone. Looking around, he saw most _everything_ was gone; boxes containing all their things were stacked against the wall, the rug they'd taken for the living room rolled up beside it, the bookshelf empty and the windows drape-less.

"Moz?" Neal called, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Oh good, you're home! I need help back here!"

Neal abandoned his backpack and jacket on the barren hardwood floor and followed Mozzie's faintly desperate voice to his bedroom. Upon reaching Mozzie's room, he saw Mozzie crowded over his dresser, pulling out clothes and dumping them into two piles.

"Be honest, is yellow my color?"

"If you're trying to look like an overgrown canary, yeah." Neal shrugged.

"Your juvenile humor amuses me, it really does," Mozzie said sarcastically. Neal snickered as Mozzie tossed it into one of the piles.

"What's going on, Moz?" Neal asked.

"We're moving."

Neal stared, Mozzie still going through clothes.

"Wait, what?"

"We're moving."

"Why?"

"That doesn't matter, just go finish packing up your things. I already started for you —"

"I'm not leaving this house until you tell me what's going on, Mozzie," Neal said firmly, unmoving from his postion. Mozzie paused, straightening up to look at Neal. He sighed.

"I'm in some trouble with some people, and it's best for the both of us if we skip town," Mozzie explained.

"What kind of trouble? With who? Moz, _what did you do_?"

"The what isn't important, but let's just say I'm in trouble with some very important people from a very important underground Scandanavian mob, so I'm going to lay low in Detroit for a while," Mozzie said quickly.

"_What_—"

"Look, I know this is a big deal, especially for you. You have friends, you like your school, you're going somewhere with your life, I get it. That's why I made this." Mozzie tossed a folder onto the far end of the dresser where Neal was standing. Neal picked it up and rifled through the contents.

"You can still go to school, live in the city — I know you love it here." Mozzie suddenly became busy again, folding the clothes from one of the two piles, stacking them up neatly in a very large suitcase that was already half full. "The people I'm in trouble with don't know about you, and they don't have to. You can stay here Neal."

"Moz..." Neal began.

"The envelope's got some money in it, enough to keep you going for a couple months, at least, and the key's for an apartment in Queens."

"You have an apartment in Queens?"

"A guys owes me a favor," Mozzie said vaguely, shrugging. "Either way, you really do need to get your stuff packed up; I want to try and skip out before the landlord comes around asking for rent again."

Neal could hear agitation and a hint of sadness in Mozzie's voice, and decided it would be best just to retreat to his bedroom to pack up. Folder in hand, Neal set off across the hall and shut his door.

* * *

Mozzie was dumping out the last of the takeout in the fridge, grimacing as he opened a container to find a large amount of mold growing inside it. He shuddered, tossing it into the trash, and heard a loud slap behind him.

Mozzie turned around, seeing the folder he'd giving Neal laying on the kitchen table.

"I'm going with you."

Neal's blue eyes were strong and serious, and the smirk on his lips showed he wouldn't be talked out of his decision.

"Neal, you don't have to go," Mozzie pointed out.

"C'mon Moz, you living in Detroit? By yourself?" Neal scoffed.

"Hey now, I've survived the past six years on my own in New York," Mozzie pointed out.

"_Survived_ is a very ambiguous term." Neal shrugged, his hands behind his back. Mozzie shook his head, smiling despite himself.

"You packed?"

"Everything's in my room waiting to go." Neal smiled.

"Okay, a buddy of mine should be here with a moving van soon." A honk outside their building signaled that their truck was indeed here.

"Right on time," said Mozzie, checking his watch. "Come on, it's going to take a few runs to get this all out. God, I hope the elevator's working. And by the way, my name is Luke and you're my friend Oliver."

* * *

With the last of their things packed, Neal shut and locked the back of the moving van. Rounding the side of the truck, he broke up the conversation Mozzie was having with another man.

"It's all packed, Luke," said Neal.

"Oh, Oliver, great," said Mozzie. He turned to the man he was speaking to before. "Jerry, thanks again."

"No problem, Luke." Jerry smiled. "Nice to meet you, Oliver."

"You too," Neal smiled.

"Take care, alright?" said Jerry. "And Luke, call me next time you're in Manhattan."

"'Course." Mozzie waved, Jerry halfway down the sidewalk.

"Well, ready to go?" Mozzie asked Neal. Neal took one last glance at their buildling.

"Guess so."

"Last chance to change your mind, Neal."

"I'm going with you, Moz," said Neal matter-of-factly.

"Then let's hop to it!"

Neal climbed into the passenger side of the van, pulling the heavy door shut and staring out the window as Mozzie pulled away from the sidewalk. Passing Central Park, Neal wondered how long it would be before he was able to revisit it. Deciding not to dwell on the depressing thought, Neal turned his attention to the crowded road in front of him, rain beginning to pat down on the windshield. Mozzie turned on the radio, flipping through the static until he found a classical station, and Neal shut his eyes. The past year in New York with Mozzie had been an adventure, and he could only imagine Detroit would be just the same.

"I know a girl out in Detroit, I'm sure you'll like her. Her name's Alex..."

* * *

Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? ...Bueller?


	13. Treize

**Author's Note:** Hello to all! The time has come for us to finally meet Alex. I'm super excited for y'all to read this chapter, so please, after you read, leave a rewiew and tell me what you think!

**UPDATE!: **Hello! Just a quick note: This chapter was updated on August 23rd. I switched the line where Mozzie said Alex moved out to Detroit six years ago. It now says she moved out here two years ago. After brainstorming for future chapters, rereading this chapter, and taking into account information and things we've gotten from the show, I decided it would work better this way. Sorry for that, but it'll make it a lot easier for me to continue on with this story the way I originally intended to.

**Disclaimer:** Any recognizable names and/or places are the property of their respective owners.

**Warnings:** See first chapter.

* * *

_Ages: Neal, 17; Mozzie, 30; Alex, 24_

"So when are we going to meet this mystery girl?" Neal asked, falling in step beside Mozzie as they trudged down the sidewalk. Detroit was just as busy as New York, the streets always crowded with cars. The air was filled even more smog than Manhattan, and the sidewalks seemed dirtier than back in New York, if that was possible.

"Patience, Neal," preached Mozzie. "Patience."

"I've been patient for two months, Mozzie. Walking around Detroit is getting old — fast," said Neal, zipping up his sweatshirt. It was unusually warm for March, the temperature hovering just above sixty degrees.

"Soon enough, soon enough."

Neal rolled his eyes, turning the corner and walking into the coffee shop. As he pulled the door open, a woman rushed out, running straight into Mozzie.

"Oh, excuse me!" said the woman. "I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize," Mozzie assured. "Neither of us were looking."

The woman nodded, smiling at them both, and took off. Neal's eyes followed her, locking onto the tiny sliver of black she pushed into her pocket. It looked mysteriously like Mozzie's wallet. Neal looked back at Mozzie, taking notice of the lack of indentation in his jacket where his wallet should've been.

"I'll catch up with you," Neal said to Mozzie, shutting the door before he could hear Mozzie's words of protest. Neal fished a ten out of his pocket and began to jog.

"Excuse me, miss!" said Neal, grabbing hold of the woman's arm. She turned, her eyebrows raised into her mahogany hair. "I'm sorry, I think you dropped this."

"Oh, thank you!" the woman said brightly, smiling at him. "That's very sweet of you."

"No problem," said Neal. As she turned, he moved to carefully pick the wallet out of her pocket. Quick as a whip she grabbed onto Neal's wrist in midair, the wallet clutched between his thumb and forefinger.

"Giving me a ten in exchange for my wallet?" she said, still smiling. "Not sure that's a fair trade."

"That's interesting, because I'm pretty sure this isn't your wallet." Neal flipped it open, revealing the ID Mozzie had forged a week before. "I must say, Dante, you are _much_ prettier in person."

The woman scoffed, her eyes flickering behind Neal for a moment.

"I must say Mozzie, the kid's a cute face, but he's a lousy pickpocket," she said, releasing Neal's hand.

"Hey," Neal said defensively.

"Word of advice, don't use your thumb. Too big a risk that it'll brush up against the mark."

Neal looked behind him, confused, seeing Mozzie walking towards them.

"Alex, you look radiant as always," said Mozzie.

"Thank you," Alex nodded, smiling at him. Mozzie took the wallet from Neal's hand, which was still hanging in midair.

"I'll take that back, thank you," said Mozzie, slipping it back inside his jacket. "Was that really necessary, Alex?"

"I was going to give it back," Alex shrugged innocently. "I just needed a couple extra bucks."

"Likely story," said Mozzie.

"Wait, _the_ Alex?" said Neal, breaking into the conversation. "Your infamous old fence?"

"Aw, Mozzie, you've been talking about me?" Alex smiled. "And I'm assuming you're _the_ Neal, Mozzie's new protegé extraodinaire?"

"'Protegé extraordinaire?'" Neal repeated.

"Neal Caffrey, meet Alex Hunter. Alex Hunter, meet Neal Caffrey," said Mozzie, introducing them both.

"Pleased to meet you," said Alex, shaking Neal's hand.

"Likewise," said Neal.

"Neal, Alex is an old friend of mind; she used to work with me back when she lived in New York," Mozzie explained. "Moved out here about two years ago."

"The Scandanavian mob after you, too?" Neal questioned. Alex laughed.

"No, just needed a change of pace."

"Ha!" Mozzie said loudly. "I'm sure that Spanish Baron you were dating would _love_ to hear you say that."

Alex glared openly at Mozzie. "Carlos and I had a very lovely relationship, thank you. And _he_ broke up with _m__e_."

"Well, royalty isn't all sunshine and rubies, now, is it?"

Alex rolled her eyes, turning her attention to Neal. "So Mozzie tells me you've got a steady hand with a brush."

"Well, Mozzie tends to downplay things a little bit," Neal shrugged.

"He does, does he?" said Alex. "You know, there's a rumor going around that somebody stole Hockney's _Nichols Canyon_. A friend of mine would love to add it to his collection."

"Really?" said Neal, cocking his head to the side. Alex nodded.

"I told him I had a good lead, could probably get it to him on Thursday."

Neal shrugged. "A Hockney, you probably won't find it until at least Friday."

"He's a very busy man who doesn't have the time to waste his copious amounts of money waiting for a painting to come around," said Alex. "He wants it by Thursday."

Neal thought for a moment, about to speak, when Mozzie interjected.

"How much is he offering?" asked Mozzie.

"Well, the exact amount will be determined when I see the painting," said Alex, looking from Neal to Mozzie.

"Whatever he pays you, we want seventy percent."

Alex laughed. "_Seventy percent_? Are you crazy? You're not getting a penny over forty."

"Seventy."

"Half."

"Sixty or we walk."

"I'll cut you a deal," said Alex. "Bring his best to the art gallery on Pinecove and McKamy tonight and we'll see if we can't work something out."

With that, Alex turned on her heel and left, sauntering down the street and disappearing into the crowd. Neal watched as she left, letting out a low whistle.

"You should see her in a dress," said Mozzie. Neal turned his head to Mozzie, an eyebrow arched curiously. Mozzie shrugged nonchalantly.

"Come on, we've got exactly two minutes before the lunch rush starts, and I'm completely parched."

* * *

"Tuck in your shirt," said Mozzie, swatting Neal's side as they strolled through the early evening. Neal arched away from Mozzie, narrowly missing a pole as he tucked the corner of his shirt into his jeans.

"Who're we trying to impress?" said Neal, a bag slung over his shoulder. Neal had picked two paintings for Alex; a Dali he did last year, and a recent original of the New York skyline.

"I'm not sure," Mozzie admitted. "Alex is testing us, and since we're going to a gallery, there's bound to be other people willing to pay top dollar for a fine piece of art."

"More like a _forged _piece of art," Neal scoffed, stopping to look through the large glass windows as they reached the gallery. Alex was dressed in a sharp brown dress, smiling at a man she was talking to. Her eyes met theirs for a moment and she made a little guesture with her head that told them to go around to the back. They nodded, rounding the corner of the building towards the back entrance.

"What, we're not good enough to walk through the front door?" Mozzie questioned as Alex shepherded them through the door.

"I'm just trying to cater to your needs, Mozzie; you never did like to show your face much, especially to potential clients," Alex answered.

"That was the guy who wants the Hockney?" Neal asked.

"Yes, and he's very eager to hear if I've gotten word on where it is," said Alex. She guestured to Neal's bag. "So, let's seem 'em."

Neal pulled the two small canvases out of his bag, handing them both to Alex. She studied them for a moment.

"Not bad, Caffrey," she nodded, handing them back to Neal. She turned the painting of New York towards him. "Whose is this?"

"Mine," said Neal. "I painted it a few months ago."

Alex nodded again.

"Mozzie was right, you're pretty damn good," said Alex, handing them back to Neal and smiling. She pulled a glossy photo off of the desk next to her. "Here's a picture of the painting. It's eighty-four by sixty inch canvas."

Neal whistled. "Hope your guy doesn't mind waiting."

"Oh, he does," said Alex. "Don't worry about finding a frame, just bring the painting back here when you're finished—"

"On Friday," said Neal, tucking the picture carefully into his bag.

"—on Thursday. I should have your money—"

"Our seventy percent," said Mozzie.

"—sixty percent of the deal will be ready and waiting for you on Saturday at the latest."

"How much are you going to ask for, anyway?" Neal asked. "A Hockney's worth a least two million."

"The exact price will be determined at the time of sale," said Alex cooly, smiling at them both. "I'll see you both later this week. I trust you can see yourselves out? I have money to make."

Alex left them in the small backroom, taking a door that led to the front of the gallery as Neal and Mozzie left through the door that they came.

"Sixty percent of two million is—"

"—One point two million," Neal finished. He looked at Mozzie and they both smiled.

"I think it's time for new furniture, don't you, Neal? Maybe a new sofa, or a nice chaise lounge for that corner in the living room. Oh! We could buy a new dining table! You know, I've always liked mahogany for a dining table..."

* * *

Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? ...Bueller?


	14. Quatorze

**Author's Note:** Howdy! Chapter fourteen is ready for the reading. Yes, I know, Neal playing piano is such a tried bit of fiction, but hey, it works in this chapter (to me, anyway). This chapter has very very slight spoiler for "In The Red," but you won't catch it if you haven't seen the episode. A big thank you to my beta, Sparky Dorian, for — like always — being amazing. Now read on!

**Disclaimer:** Any recognizable names and/or places are the property of their respective owners.

**Warnings:** See first chapter.

**

* * *

**

"Checkmate."

Mozzie opened his eyes, lowering his glass of wine and looking down to the chessboard on the table. "What?"

"Checkmate."

"How..."

"You really shouldn't drink and play," said Neal. "Not that you'd win sober."

Mozzie looked from the board to Neal, who was smiling back at him.

"Once again, your humor greatly amuses me," Mozzie said sarcastically. "And wipe that smirk off your face, it's only one game."

"One game _today_," Neal muttered, sweeping the pieces off into a maroon bag and placing them on top of the board, walking to put the board back on top of the upright they'd recently purchased. Sitting down, Neal pushed open the cover of the keys and began to play. It was a light, airy tune he could remember from when he was younger, probably from one of his few trips to Coney Island.

"Where'd you learn how to play again?" Mozzie asked, coming up behind Neal. Neal glanced over his shoulder at Mozzie.

"Nowhere," Neal answered. "Can't read sheets."

"You learn by ear?" asked Mozzie.

"Yep."

Mozzie nodded impressively as Neal's fingers relaxed on the keys. Mozzie slid onto the stool beside him, flexing his fingers before beginning to play the lower part of Heart And Soul. Neal laughed for a moment before accompanying him.

"Who taught _you_ to play, Maestro?" Neal asked.

"A girl who came and volunteered at the orphanage," said Mozzie. Neal abruptly stopped played, furrowing his brow at Mozzie.

"Orphanage?" said Neal. "You—"

"—grew up in an orphange? Yes. I did. But that's another story for another day. Keep playing." Mozzie ordered. "As I was saying, her name was Margaret Mallory and boy, was she a babe."

Neal laughed loudly, his fingers still moving as he threw his head back.

"She was in high school and could play your ears off. Talk 'em off, too. Not that I minded. Her hair was too distracting, anyways; reddest head you've ever seen," said Mozzie thoughtfully, looking off into the distance. "Her dad was the preacher at the biggest church in town — the one the orphange was run by — and she played the organ on Sunday mornings. And she always wore this coin around her neck, with St. Michael on it. Said it was her mother's; she died when Margaret was young."

"Whatever happened to her?" Neal asked, looking up from the piano and over to Mozzie. He let out a low breath.

"Cancer. It was a pretty big shock; they never told anyone. Margaret collapsed in a stairwell one day at school, that's when it all came out. She died a week later."

"I'm sorry, Moz," said Neal genuinely, the apartment now silent. Mozzie shrugged, brushing away the memories.

"'Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest lost is what dies inside us while we live.'"

"Norman Cousins," said Neal. Mozzie nodded, rising from the bench.

"You hungry?" Mozzie asked.

"A bit," said Neal. "Want to go out tonight? I hear there's a nice Chinese place that just opened down the street; I know you love orange chicken and egg rolls."

"Fine, but do something with your hair first," said Mozzie. Neal's hand flew to his hair, running his fingers through it.

"What's wrong with my hair?" Neal asked.

"It's getting all flippy in the back 'cause it's too long. Maybe if you tried running a _comb_ through it every once in a while—"

Neal slapped Mozzie's hand away from his head, ducking away towards the door.

"Leave me and my hair alone, alright?" said Neal, slipping his arms into his jacket and handing Mozzie his. "I like it. It distracts people from the fact that I'm stealing from them."

Neal smiled as they walked out the aparment, and Mozzie rolled his eyes, shutting the door.

"_Kids_."

* * *

Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? ...Bueller?


	15. Quinze

**Author's Note:** Hey guys! Here's lucky number fifteen, and I'm particularly happy with this chapter. We get another glimpse of Alex, and hopefully I wrote her well. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** Any recognizable names and/or places are the property of their respective owners.

**Warnings:** See first chapter.

* * *

"Where're you going?" asked Mozzie, tipping down the top corner of his paper and looking at Neal.

"Work," said Neal, pulling two pieces of bread and a jar of peanut butter out of the pantry. Mozzie furrowed his eyebrows.

"Work?" said Mozzie. "Since when do you have a job?"

"Since Thursday," said Neal. "Didn't I tell you this? I'm working at the flower shop a few blocks from here."

"_Adam's Eden_?"

"Detroit's first and only flower shop." Neal smiled, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. He checked his watch, then downed his orange juice in one swallow.

"Gotta go, see you later," said Neal, rushing to the door.

"Alright, have fun," said Mozzie. "Don't do anything I wouldn't!"

As the front door closed, Mozzie heard what sounded suspiciously like a loud bark of laughter.

* * *

Neal yawned, flipping tiredly through the newest issue of People as the bell above the door tinkled. Pushing the magazine away he straightened up, fixing the collar of his shirt as the quiet clack of high heels filled the empty store.

"Trying your hand at a new branch of art, I see?"

Alex smiled at him, a vision of purple in a short, plum dress with a matching cardigan.

"Alex," said Neal. "Fancy seeing you here. Trying to charm another Baron?"

"No, just looking," said Alex.

"Well, we have a very wide selection to choose from," asked Neal, walking around the counter to roam amongst the flowers. "We have some lovely roses, an absolute classic. Some beautiful lilies, any color you'd like."

"A bouquet of purple hyacinth and white baby's breath, please," said Alex.

"A woman who knows what she wants," said Neal impressively, walking back around the counter. "I like that."

Alex snorted, strolling up to Neal.

"To ensure complete customer satisfaction, we at _Adam's Eden_ like to give our patrons the ability to pick their own vase," said Neal. "So, Ms. Hunter, which vase would you like?"

Alex eyed the wall of vases behind Neal thoughtfully, tilting her head.

"Well let's see," she said, squinting her eyes and tapping her chin. She pointed to a tall, hour glass shaped vase near the middle. "That one."

"Nice choice," said Neal, taking it off the wall and setting it in front her Alex. "Excuse me for a moment."

Neal walked to the back and emerged a minute or so later with a large handful of flowers, twirling a pair of scissors expertly in his hand.

"I heard you and Mozzie recently came across a Dali," said Alex casually.

"Did you?" said Neal, his eyes barely flickering up from his work.

"An expensive one, too."

"All of Dali's works are expensive, Alex," said Neal.

"No alarms triggered, either."

"Alarms these days are so faulty; you can hardly rely on them to protect your belongings."

"Heard the rottweilers were asleep, too."

"What can I say? I have a way with dogs."

Alex laughed. "I'm impressed, Caffrey. Not many people could pull that off."

"Well I'm not like most people," Neal said, trimming the last of the flowers down to size and grabbing some tissue paper.

"I'm surprised you guys haven't sold it yet," said Alex. Neal glanced up at her, and she shrugged. "I'm a fence, Neal, knowing about this sort of thing is my job."

"We decided we could handle this one ourselves, thank you," said Neal.

"Alright, but you guys really should've cut me in," said Alex. "Don't complain when somebody makes away with it for a steal."

Neal shrugged, tying a strip of ribbon around the middle of the tissue-wrapped bouquet. "Who'd you say these were for again?"

"I didn't," said Alex, smiling at him.

"That'll be twenty-seven dollars," said Neal, quickly ringing it up one the cash register. She laid down a twenty and a ten, picking up the flowers from the counter.

"Keep the change," she said, her clacking heels making their way to the door.

"Have a good day."

"I will."

Alex smiled, taking one last glance at Neal through the glass door before leaving.

* * *

"Moz, I'm home!" said Neal, dropping his house keys and wallet onto the kitchen counter and flipping through the mail he'd carried up.

"Mozzie?" said Neal, beginning to look through Mozzie's safe cracking magazine. "Moz—"

The front door opened and Mozzie stepped inside, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the wall hook.

"Oh, hey Moz," said Neal. "Where've you been?"

"I met up with a friend," Mozzie said vaguely. For a moment Neal felt the urge to question Mozzie about this meeting, but stopped himself, knowing he wouldn't get a straight answer.

"How was work?" asked Mozzie.

"Slow," said Neal. "As always. Hey, I saw—"

"Oh, these flowers are lovely!" Mozzie exclaimed from the living room. "What are these, hyacinths? I've never seen them this shade of purple before."

Neal nearly dropped his magazine. What are the odds? he thought to himself.

"And baby's breath; they smell great."

Neal tossed the magazine aside, pushing himself away from the counter and into the living room.

"You bring these home from work?" Mozzie asked, looking expectantly at Neal.

"They're from work, yes," said Neal. "Moz, how long were you gone today?"

"I left around two, so about three hours?" Mozzie guessed. "Why?"

Neal quickly moved towards the hall closet, yanking open the door. The towels and blankets all appeared in perfect order, but Neal shoved them carelessly aside, knocking a few linens off in the process.

"What're you doing? I just folded those this morning!" said Mozzie, watching the towels fall to the floor.

Neal ignored him, feeling around the wall for the tiny gap. Slipping his fingernail inside, he pulled off a small section off the wall, feeling around the hollow space.

"Neal, _what are you doing_?"

"Did you move the Dali?" Neal asked, standing on tiptoes to reach the bottom.

"No, why?" Instantly, panic rose into Mozzie's voice. "Neal?"

Neal's fingers closed around what felt like a piece of paper. Pulling his arm out, Neal saw it was a tiny envelope. He pulled out a small card, flipping open the top.

_Told you somebody was going to make away with it for a steal. Should've cut me in._

_XOXO,_

_A.H._

"Alex." Neal shook his head.

"_Alex_ took the Dali?" said Mozzie.

"She left the flowers, too."

"When did this happen? _How_ could this happen?" said Mozzie.

Neal shrugged. "She heard about the Dali heist. Came into the flower shop today and asked me about it, said we should've let her in on it."

"Well this is just great, there goes our dinner for the next _year!_" Mozzie rubbed his forehead, a worried look on his face.

"Can't we just steal it back?" asked Neal.

"From Alex? That Dali's halfway to Milan by now," said Mozzie. "She knows how to sell something quick, let me tell you. Alex calls up a list of interested buyers before taking something so she can ship it off as soon as she gets it. It's her patented 'steal and deal' method."

Mozzie moved to the living room and collapsed into an armchair as Neal slid onto the couch, propping his feet up on the table and running a hand through his hair. Mozzie took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, cleaning the lenses on his shirt. They both sighed and Neal tilted his head, staring at the bouquet.

"Well, at least we got some flowers."

* * *

Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? ...Bueller?


End file.
